DANGEROUS    DAYS 

MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 


BY  MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 

DANGEROUS  DAYS 

THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

BAB:  A  SUB-DEB 

LOVE  STORIES 

KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

TWENTY-THREE  AND  A  HALF 

HOURS'    LEAVE 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


DANGEROUS 
DAYS 

BY 

MARY  ROBERTS 
RINEHART 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE.*? 

"THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS," 

••K,"    ETC. 


NEW  ^SJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Copyright,  1919,  by  The  Pictorial  Review  Company 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


DANGEROUS   DAYS 


DANGEROUS   DAYS 


CHAPTER  I 

NATALIE  SPENCER  was  giving  a  dinner.    She  was  not 
an  easy  hostess.     Like  most  women  of  futile  lives  she 
lacked  a  sense  of  proportion,  and  the  small  and  unimportant 
details  of  the  service  absorbed  her.    Such  conversation  as  she 
threw  at  random,  to  right  and  left,  was  trivial  and  distracted. 

Yet  the  dinner  was  an  unimportant  one.  It  had  been  given 
with  an  eye  more  to  the  menu  than  to  the  guest  list,  which 
was  characteristic  of  Natalie's  mental  processes.  It  was  also 
characteristic  that  when  the  final  course  had  been  served  with 
out  mishap,  and  she  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  before  the  gesture  of 
withdrawal  which  was  a  signal  to  the  other  women,  that  she 
had  realized  no  lack  in  it.  The  food  had  been  good,  the  service 
satisfactory.  She  stood  up,  slim  and  beautifully  dressed,  and 
gathered  up  the  women  with  a  smile. 

The  movement  found  Doctor  Haverford,  at  her  left,  unpre 
pared  and  with  his  coffee  cup  in  his  hand.  He  put  it  down 
hastily  and  rose,  and  the  small  cup  overturned  in  its  saucer, 
sending  a  smudge  of  brown  into  the  cloth. 

"Dreadfully  awkward  of  me!"  he  said.  The  clergyman's 
smile  of  apology  was  boyish,  but  he  was  suddenly  aware  that 
his  hostess  was  annoyed.  He  caught  his  wife's  amiable  eyes 
on  him,  too,  and  they  said  quite  plainly  that  one  might  spill 
coffee  at  home — one  quite  frequently  did,  to  confess  a  good 
man's  weakness — but  one  did  not  do  it  at  Natalie  Spencer's 
table.  The  rector's  smile  died  into  a  sheepish  grin. 

7 


8  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

For  the  first  time  since  dinner  began  Natalie  Spencer  had  a 
clear  view  of  her  husband's  face.  Not  that  that  had  mattered 
particularly,  but  the  flowers  had  been  too  high.  For  a  small 
dinner,  low  flowers,  always.  She  would  speak  to  the  florist. 
But,  having  glanced  at  Clayton,  standing  tall  and  handsome  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  she  looked  again.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
her  with  a  curious  intentness.  He  seemed  to  be  surveying  her, 
from  the  top  of  her  burnished  hair  to  the  very  gown  she  wore. 
His  gaze  made  her  vaguely  uncomfortable.  It  was  unsmiling, 
appraising,  almost — only  that  was  incredible  in  Clay — almost 
hostile. 

Through  the  open  door  the  half  dozen  women  trailed  out, 
Natalie  in  white,  softly  rustling  as  she  moved,  Mrs.  Haverford 
in  black  velvet,  a  trifle  tight  over  her  ample  figure,  Marion 
Hayden,  in  a  very  brief  garment  she  would  have  called  a 
frock,  perennial  debutante  that  she  was,  rather  negligible  Mrs. 
Terry  Mackenzie,  and  trailing  behind  the  others,  frankly  loath 
to  leave  the  men,  Audrey  Valentine.  Clayton  Spencer's  eyes 
rested  on  Audrey  with  a  smile  of  amused  toleration,  on  her 
outrageously  low  green  gown,  that  was  somehow  casually  ele 
gant,  on  her  long  green  ear-rings  and  jade  chain,  on  the  cig- 
aret  between  her  slim  fingers. 

Audrey's  audacity  always  amused  him.  In  the  doorway  she 
turned  and  nonchalantly  surveyed  the  room. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  hurry!"  she  apostrophized  the  table. 
"We  are  going  to  knit — I  feel  it.  And  don't  give  Chris  any 
thing  more  to  drink,  Clay.  He's  had  enough." 

She  went  on,  a  slim  green  figure,  moving  slowly  and  reluc 
tantly  toward  the  drawing-room,  her  head  held  high,  a  little 
smile  still  on  her  lips.  But,  alone  for  a  moment,  away  from 
curious  eyes,  her  expression  changed,  her  smile  faded,  her 
lovely,  irregular  face  took  on  a  curious  intensity.  What  a 
devilish  evening!  Chris  drinking  too  much,  talking  wildly, 
and  always  with  furtive  eyes  on  her.  Chris !  Oh,  well,  that 
was  life,  she  supposed. 

She  stopped  before  a  long  mirror  and  gave  a  bit  of  careless 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 


attention  to  her  hair.  With  more  care  she  tinted  her  lips  again 
with  a  cosmetic  stick  from  the  tiny,  diamond-studded  bag  she 
carried.  Then  she  turned  and  surveyed  the  hall  and  the  li 
brary  beyond.  A  new  portrait  of  Natalie  was  there,  hanging 
on  the  wall  under  a  shaded  light,  and  she  wandered  in,  still 
with  her  cigaret,  and  surveyed  it.  Natalie  had  everything. 
The  portrait  showed  it.  It  was  beautiful,  smug,  complacent. 

Mrs.  Valentine's  eyes  narrowed  slightly.  She  stood  there, 
thinking  about  Natalie.  She  had  not  everything,  after  all. 
There  was  something  she  lacked.  Charm,  perhaps.  She  was 
a  cold  woman.  But,  then,  Clay  was  cold,  too.  He  was  even 
a  bit  hard.  Men  said  that;  hard  and  ambitious,  although  he 
was  popular.  Men  liked  strong  men.  It  was  only  the  weak 
they  deplored  and  loved.  Poor  Chris ! 

She  lounged  into  the  drawing-room,  smiling  her  slow,  cool 
smile.  In  the  big,  uncarpeted  alcove,  where  stood  Natalie's 
great  painted  piano,  Marion  Hayden  was  playing  softly,  care 
fully  posed  for  the  entrance  of  the  men.  Natalie  was  sitting 
with  her  hands  folded,  in  the  exact  center  of  a  peacock-blue 
divan.  The  others  were  knitting. 

"Very  pretty  effect,  Toots !"  Audrey  called.  And  Miss  Hay- 
den  gave  her  the  unashamed  smile  of  one  woman  of  the  world 
to  another. 

Audrey  had  a  malicious  impulse.  She  sat  down  beside  Nat 
alie,  and  against  the  blue  divan  her  green  gown  shrieked  a 
discord.  She  was  vastly  amused  when  Natalie  found  an  ex 
cuse  and  moved  away,  to  dispose  herself  carefully  in  a  tall, 
old-gold  chair,  which  framed  her  like  a  picture. 

"We  were  talking  of  men,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Haverford, 
placidly  knitting. 

"Of  course,"  said  Audrey,  flippantly. 

"Of  what  it  is  that  they  want  more  than  anything  else  in  the 
world." 

"Children — sons,"  put  in  Mrs.  Mackenzie.  She  was  a  ro 
bust,  big  woman  with  kindly  eyes,  and  she  was  childless. 

"Women!"  called  Toots  Hayden.     She  was  still  posed,  but 


io DANGEROUS  DAYS 

she  had  stopped  playing.  Mrs.  Haverford's  eyes  rested  on  her 
a  moment,  disapprovingly. 

"What  do  you  say,  Natalie  ?"  Audrey  asked. 

"I  hadn't  thought  about  it.     Money,  probably." 

"You  are  all  wrong,"  said  Audrey,  and  lighted  a  fresh 
cigaret.  "They  want  different  things  at  different  ages.  That's 
why  marriage  is  such  a  rotten  failure.  First  they  want  women ; 
any  woman  will  do,  really.  So  they  marry — any  woman. 
Then  they  want  money.  After  that  they  want  power  and  place. 
And  when  they've  got  that  they  begin  to  want — love." 

"Good  gracious,  Audrey,  what  a  cynical  speech !"  said  Mrs. 
Mackenzie.  "If  they've  been  married  all  that  time " 

"Oh,  tut !"  said  Audrey,  rudely, 

She  had  the  impulse  of  the  unhappy  woman  to  hurt,  but  she 
was  rather  ashamed  of  herself,  too.  These  women  were  her 
friends.  Let  them  go  on  believing  that  life  was  a  thing  of  last 
ing  loves,  that  men  were  true  to  the  end,  and  that  the  relation 
ships  of  life  were  fixed  and  permanent  things. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "I  was  just  being  clever!  Let's  talk 
about  the  war.  It's  the  only  thing  worth  talking  about,  any 
how." 

In  the  dining-room  Clayton  Spencer,  standing  tall  and  erect, 
had  watched  the  women  go  out.  How  typical  the  party  was  of 
Natalie,  of  her  meticulous  care  in  small  things  and  her  indif 
ference  or  real  ignorance  as  to  what  counted.  Was  it  indif 
ference,  really,  or  was  it  supreme  craftiness,  the  stupidity  of 
her  dinners,  the  general  unattractiveness  of  the  women  she 
gathered  around  her,  the  ill-assortment  of  people  who  had 
little  in  themselves  and  nothing  whatever  in  common? 

Of  all  the  party,  only  Audrey  and  the  rector  had  interested 
him  even  remotely.  Audrey  amused  him.  Audrey  was  a  curi 
ous  mixture  of  intelligence  and  frivolity.  She  was  a  good  fel 
low.  Sometimes  he  thought  she  was  a  nice  woman  posing 
as  not  quite  nice.  He  didn't  know.  He  was  not  particularly 
analytical,  but  at  least  she  had  been  one  bit  of  cheer  during  the 
endless  succession  of  courses. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 11, 

The  rector  was  the  other,  and  he  was  relieved  to  find  Doc 
tor  Haverford  moving  up  to  the  vacant  place  at  his  right. 

"I've  been  wanting  to  see  you,  Clay,"  he  said  in  an  under 
tone.  "It's  rather  stupid  to  ask  you  how  you  found  things 
over  there.  But  I'm  going  to  do  it." 

"You  mean  the  war?" 

"There's  nothing  else  in  the  world,  is  there?" 

"One  wouldn't  have  thought  so  from  the  conversation  here 
to-night." 

Clayton  Spencer  glanced  about  the  table.  Rodney  Page, 
the  architect,  was  telling  a  story  clearly  not  for  the  ears  of 
the  clergy,  and  his  own  son,  Graham,  forced  in  at  the  last 
moment  to  fill  a  vacancy,  was  sitting  alone,  bored  and  rather 
sulky,  and  sipping  his  third  cognac. 

"If  you  want  my  opinion,  things  are  bad." 

"For  the  Allies?    Or  for  us?" 

"Good  heavens,  man,  it's  the  same  thing.  It  is  only  the 
Allies  who  are  standing  between  us  and  trouble  now.  The 
French  are  just  holding  their  own.  The  British  are  fighting 
hard,  but  they're  fighting  at  home  too.  We  can't  sit  by  for 
long.  We're  bound  to  be  involved." 

The  rector  lighted  an  excellent  cigar. 

"Even  if  we  are,"  he  said,  hopefully,  "I  understand  our  part 
of  it  will  be  purely  naval.  And  I  believe  our  navy  will  give  an 
excellent  account  of  itself." 

"Probably,"  Clay  retorted.  "If  it  had  anything  to  fight! 
But  with  the  German  fleet  bottled  up,  and  the  inadvisability 
of  attempting  to  bombard  Berlin  from  the  sea !" 

The  rector  made  no  immediate  reply,  and  Clayton  seemed  to 
expect  none.  He  sat  back,  tapping  the  table  with  long,  nervous 
fingers,  and  his  eyes  wandered  from  the  table  around  the  room. 
He  surveyed  it  all  with  much  the  look  he  had  given  Natalie,  a 
few  moments  before,  searching,  appraising,  vaguely  hostile. 
Yet  it  was  a  lovely  room,  simple  and  stately.  Rodney  Page, 
who  was  by  way  of  being  decorator  for  the  few,  as  he  was 
architect  for  the  many,  had  done  the  room,  with  its  plainly 


12  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

paneled  walls,  the  over-mantel  with  an  old  painting  inset,  its 
lion  chairs,  its  two  console  tables  with  each  its  pair  of  porce 
lain  jars.  Clayton  liked  the  dignity  of  the  room,  but  there 
were  times  when  he  and  Natalie  sat  at  the  great  table  alone, 
with  only  the  candles  for  light  and  the  rest  of  the  room  in  a 
darkness  from  which  the  butler  emerged  at  stated  intervals  and 
retreated  again,  when  he  felt  the  oppression  of  it.  For  a 
dinner  party,  with  the  brilliant  colors  of  the  women's  gowns, 
it  was  ideal.  For  Natalie  and  himself  alone,  with  the  long 
silences  between  them  that  seemed  to  grow  longer  as  the  years 
went  on,  it  was  inexpressibly  dreary. 

He  was  frequently  aware  that  both  Natalie  and  himself  were 
talking  for  the  butler's  benefit. 

From  the  room  his  eyes  traveled  to  Graham,  sitting  alone, 
uninterested,  dull  and  somewhat  flushed.  And  on  Graham, 
too,  he  fixed  that  clear  appraising  gaze  that  had  vaguely  dis 
concerted  Natalie.  The  boy  had  had  too  much  to  drink,  and 
unlike  the  group  across  the  table,  it  had  made  him  sullen  and 
quiet.  He  sat  there,  staring  moodily  at  the  cloth  and  turning 
his  glass  around  in  fingers  that  trembled  somewhat. 

Then  he  found  himself  involved  in  the  conversation. 

"London  as  dark  as  they  say  ?"  inquired  Christopher  Valen 
tine.  He  was  a  thin  young  man,  with  a  small,  affectedly  curled 
mustache.  Clayton  did  not  care  for  him,  but  Natalie  found 
him  amusing.  "I  haven't  been  over — "  he  really  said  'ovah' — 
"for  ages.  Eight  months  or  so." 

"Very  dark.    Hard  to  get  about." 

"Most  of  the  fellows  I  know  over  there  are  doing  some 
thing.  I'd  like  to  run  over,  but  what's  the  use?  Nobody 
around,  street's  dark,  no  gayety,  nothing." 

"No.  You'd  better  stay  at  home.  They  don't  particularly 
want  visitors,  anyhow." 

"Unless  they  go  for  war  contracts,  eh?"  said  Valentine 
pleasantly,  a  way  he  had  of  taking  the  edge  off  the  frequent 
impertinence  of  his  speech.  "No,  I'm  not  going  over.  We're 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 13 

not  popular  over  there,  I  understand.  Keep  on  thinking  we 
ought  to  take  a  hand  in  the  dirty  mess." 

Graham  spoke,  unexpectedly. 

"Well,  don't  you  think  we  ought?" 

"If  you  want  my  candid  opinion,  no.  We've  been  waving  a 
red  flag  called  the  Monroe  Doctrine  for  some  little  time,  as  a 
signal  that  we  won't  stand  for  Europe  coming  over  here  and 
grabbing  anything.  If  we're  going  to  be  consistent,  we  can't 
do  any  grabbing  in  Europe,  can  we  ?" 

Clayton  eyed  him  rather  contemptuously. 

"We  might  want  to  'grab'  as  you  term  it,  a  share  in  putting 
the  madmen  of  Europe  into  chains,"  he  said.  "I  thought  you 
were  pro-British,  Chris." 

"Only  as  to  clothes,  women  and  filet  of  sole,"  Chris  returned 
flippantly.  Then,  seeing  Graham  glowering  at  him  across  the 
table,  he  dropped  his  affectation  of  frivolity.  "What's  the  use 
of  our  going  in  now?"  he  argued.  "This  Somme  push  is  the 
biggest  thing  yet.  They're  going  through  the  Germans  like  a 
hay  cutter  through  a  field.  German  losses  half  a  million  al 
ready." 

"And  what  about  the  Allies?  Have  they  lost  nothing?" 
This  was  Clayton's  attorney,  an  Irishman  named  Denis  Nolan. 
There  had  been  two  n's  in  the  Denis,  originally,  but  although 
he  had  disposed  of  a  part  of  his  birthright,  he  was  still  bellig 
erently  Irish.  "What  about  Rumania?  What  about  the  Rus 
sians  at  Lemberg?  What  about  Saloniki?" 

"You  Irish !"  said  the  rector,  genially.  "Always  fighting  the 
world  and  each  other.  Tell  me,  Nolan,  why  is  it  that  you 
always  have  individual  humor  and  collective  ill-humor?" 

He  felt  that  that  was  rather  neat.  But  Nolan  was  regard 
ing  him  acrimoniously,  and  Clayton  apparently  had  not  heard 
at  all. 

The  dispute  went  on,  Chris  Valentine  alternately  flippant 
and  earnest,  the  rector  conciliatory,  Graham  glowering  and 
silent.  Nolan  had  started  on  the  Irish  question,  and  Rodney 
baited  him  with  the  prospect  of  conscription  there.  Nolan's 


14 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

voice,  full  and  mellow  and  strangely  sweet,  dominated  the 
room. 

But  Clayton  was  not  listening.  He  had  heard  Nolan  air  his 
views  before.  He  was  a  trifle  acid,  was  Nolan.  He  needed 
mellowing,  a  woman  in  his  life.  But  Nolan  had  loved  once, 
and  the  girl  had  died.  With  the  curious  constancy  of  the  Irish, 
he  had  remained  determinedly  celibate. 

"Strange  race/'  Clayton  reflected  idly,  as  Nolan's  voice  sang 
on.  "Don't  know  what  they  want,  but  want  it  like  the  devil. 
One-woman  men,  too.  Curious  !" 

It  occurred  to  him  then  that  his  own  reflection  was  as  odd 
as  the  fidelity  of  the  Irish.  He  had  been  faithful  to  his  wife. 
He  had  never  thought  of  being  anything  else. 

He  did  not  pursue  that  line  of  thought.  He  sat  back  and 
resumed  his  nervous  tapping  of  the  cloth,  not  listening,  hardly 
thinking,  but  conscious  of  a  discontent  that  was  beyond  an 
alysis. 

Clayton  had  been  aware,  since  his  return  from  the  continent 
and  England  days  before,  of  a  change  in  himself.  He  had 
not  recognized  it  until  he  reached  home.  And  he  was  angry 
with  himself  for  feeling  it.  He  had  gone  abroad  for  certain 
Italian  contracts  and  had  obtained  them.  A  year  or  two,  if  the 
war  lasted  so  long,  and  he  would  be  on  his  feet  at  last,  after 
years  of  struggle  to  keep  his  organization  together  through 
the  hard  times  that  preceded  the  war.  He  would  be  much 
more  than  on  his  feet.  Given  three  more  years  of  war,  and  he 
would  be  a  very  rich  man. 

And  now  that  the  goal  was  within  sight,  he  was  finding  that 
it  was  not  money  he  wanted.  There  were  some  things  money 
could  not  buy.  He  had  always  spent  money.  His  anxieties 
had  not  influenced  his  scale  of  living.  Money,  for  instance, 
could  not  buy  peace  for  the  world,  or  peace  for  a  man,  either. 
It  had  only  one  value  for  a  man ;  it  gave  him  independence  of 
other  men,  made  him  free. 

"Three  things,"  said  the  rector,  apropos  of  something  or 
other,  and  rather  oratorically,  "are  required  by  the  normal 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 15 

man.  Work,  play,  and  love.  Assure  the  crippled  soldier  that 
he  has  lost  none  of  these,  and " 

Work  and  play  and  love.  Well,  God  knows  he  had  worked. 
Play?  He  would  have  to  take  up  golf  again  more  regularly. 
He  ought  to  play  three  times  a  week.  Perhaps  he  could  take 
a  motor-tour  now  and  then,  too.  Natalie  would  like  that. 

Love  ?  He  had  not  thought  about  love  very  much.  A  mar 
ried  man  of  forty-five  certainly  had  no  business  thinking  about 
love.  No,  he  certainly  did  not  want  love.  He  felt  rather 
absurd,  even  thinking  about  it.  And  yet,  in  the  same  flash, 
came  a  thought  of  the  violent  passions  of  his  early  twenties. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  he  had  suffered  horribly  because 
Natalie  had  not  wanted  to  marry  him.  He  was  glad  all  that 
was  over.  No,  he  certainly  did  not  want  love. 

He  drew  a  long  breath  and  straightened  up. 

"How  about  those  plans,  Rodney?"  he  inquired  genially. 
"Natalie  says  you  have  them  ready  to  look  over/' 

"I'll  bring  them  round,  any  time  you  say." 

"To-morrow,  then.  Better  not  lose  any  time.  Building  is 
going  to  be  a  slow  matter,  at  the  best." 

"Slow  and  expensive,"  Page  added.  He  smiled  at  his  host, 
but  Clayton  Spencer  remained  grave. 

"I've  been  away,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't  know  what  Natalie 
and  you  have  cocked  up  between  you.  But  just  remember 
this :  I  want  a  comfortable  country  house.  I  don't  want  a  pub 
lic  library." 

Page  looked  uncomfortable.  The  move  into  the  drawing- 
room  covered  his  uneasiness,  but  he  found  a  moment  later  pn 
to  revert  to  the  subject. 

"I  have  tried  to  carry  out  Natalie's  ideas,  Clay,"  he  said. 
"She  wanted  a  sizeable  place,  you  know.  A  wing  for  house- 
parties,  and — that  sort  of  thing." 

Clayton's  eyes  roamed  about  the  room,  where  portly  Mrs. 
Haverford  was  still  knitting  placidly,  where  the  Chris  Valen 
tines  were  quarreling  under  pretense  of  raillery,  where  Toots 
Hayden  was  smoking  a  cigaret  in  a  corner  and  smiling  up 


i_6 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

at  Graham,  and  where  Natalie,   exquisite  and  precise,  was 
supervising  the  laying  out  of  a  bridge  table. 

"She  would,  of  course,"  he  observed,  rather  curtly,  and, 
moving  through  a  French  window,  went  out  onto  a  small 
balcony  into  the  night. 

He  was  irritated  with  himself.  What  had  come  over  him? 
He  shook  himself,  and  drew  a  long  breath  of  the  sweet  night 
air.  His  tall,  boyishly  straight  figure  dominated  the  little 
place.  In  the  half-light  he  looked,  indeed,  like  an  overgrown 
boy.  He  always  looked  like  Graham's  brother,  anyhow;  it 
was  one  of  Natalie's  complaints  against  him.  But  he  put  the 
thought  of  Natalie  away,  along  with  his  new  discontent.  By 
George,  it  was  something  to  feel  that,  if  a  man  could  not  fight 
in  this  war,  at  least  he  could  make  shells  to  help  end  it.  Ob 
livious  to  the  laughter  in  the  room  behind  him,  the  clink  of 
glass  as  whiskey-and-soda  was  brought  in,  he  planned  there 
in  the  darkness,  new  organization,  new  expansions — and  found 
in  it  a  great  content. 

He  was  proud  of  his  mills.  They  were  his,  of  his  making. 
The  small  iron  foundry  of  his  father's  building  had  developed 
into  the  colossal  furnaces  that  night  after  night  lighted  the 
down-town  district  like  a  great  conflagration.  He  was  proud 
of  his  mills  and  of  his  men.  He  liked  to  take  men  and  see 
them  work  out  his  judgment  of  them.  He  was  not  often 
wrong.  Take  that  room  behind  him :  Rodney  Page,  dilettante, 
liked  by  women,  who  called  him  "Roddie,"  a  trifle  unscrupu 
lous  but  not  entirely  a  knave,  the  sort  of  man  one  trusted  with 
everything  but  one's  wife;  Chris,  too — only  he  let  married 
women  alone,  and  forgot  to  pay  back  the  money  he  borrowed. 
There  was  only  one  man  in  the  room  about  whom  he  was 
beginning  to  mistrust  his  judgment,  and  that  was  his  own  son. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  had  so  recently  come  from  lands 
where  millions  of  boys  like  Graham  were  pouring  out  their 
young  lives  like  wine,  that  Clayton  Spencer  was  seeing  Gra 
ham  with  a  new  vision.  He  turned  and  glanced  back  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  Graham,  in  the  center  of  that  misfit 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  17 

group  and  not  quite  himself,  was  stooping  over  Marion  Hay- 
den.  They  would  have  to  face  that,  of  course,  the  woman  urge 
in  the  boy.  Until  now  his  escapades  had  been  boyish  ones,  a 
few  debts  frankly  revealed  and  as  frankly  regretted,  some 
college  mischiefs,  a  rather  serious  gambling  fever,  quickly 
curbed.  But  never  women,  thank  God. 

But  now  the  boy  was»through  with  college,  and  already  he 
noticed  something  new  in  their  relationship.  Natalie  had  al 
ways  spoiled  him,  and  now  there  were,  with  increasing  fre 
quency,  small  consultations  in  her  room  when  he  was  shut 
out,  and  he  was  beginning  to  notice  a  restraint  in  his  relations 
with  the  boy,  as  though  mother  and  son  had  united  against 
him. 

He  was  confident  that  Natalie  was  augmenting  Graham's 
allowance  from  her  own.  His  salary,  rather,  for  he  had  taken 
the  boy  into  the  business,  not  as  a  partner — that  would  come 
later — but  as  the  manager  of  a  department.  He  never  spoke 
to  Natalie  of  money.  Her  house  bills  were  paid  at  the  office 
without  question.  But  only  that  day  Miss  Potter,  his  secre 
tary,  had  reported  that  Mrs.  Spencer's  bank  had  called  up  and 
he  had  made  good  a  considerable  overdraft. 

He  laid  the  cause  of  his  discontent  to  Graham,  finally.  The 
boy  had  good  stuff  in  him.  He  was  not  going  to  allow  Nat 
alie  to  spoil  him,  or  to  withdraw  him  into  that  little  realm 
of  detachment  in  which  she  lived.  Natalie  did  not  need  him, 
and  had  not,  either  as  a  lover  or  a  husband,  for  years.  But 
the  boy  did. 

There  was  a  little  stir  in  the  room  behind.  The  Haver- 
fords  were  leaving,  and  the  Hayden  girl,  who  was  plainly 
finding  the  party  dull.  Graham  was  looking  down  at  her, 
a  tall,  handsome  boy,  with  Natalie's  blonde  hair  but  his  fath 
er's  height  and  almost  insolent  good  looks. 

"Come  around  to-morrow,"  she  was  saying.  "About  four. 
There's  always  a  c.owd  about  five,  you  know." 

Clayton  knew,  and  felt  a  misgiving.  The  Hayden  house  was 
a  late  afternoon  loafing  and  meeting  place  for  the  idle  sons 


i8 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

and  daughters  of  the  rich.  Not  the  conservative  old  families, 
who  had  developed  a  sense  of  the  responsibility  of  wealth, 
but  of  the  second  generation  of  easily  acquired  money.  As  she 
went  out,  with  Graham  at  her  elbow,  he  heard  Chris,  at  the 
bridge  table. 

"Terrible  house,  the  Haydens.  Just  one  step  from  the  Sat 
urday  night  carouse  in  Clay's  mill  district." 

When  Graham  came  back,  Mrs.  Haverford  put  her  hand  on 
his  arm. 

"I  wish  you  would  come  to  see  us,  Graham.  Delight  so  often 
speaks  of  you." 

Graham  stiffened  almost  imperceptibly. 

"Thanks,  I  will."    But  his  tone  was  distant. 

"You  know  she  comes  out  this  winter." 

"Really?" 

"And — you  were  great  friends.  I  think  she  misses  you  a 
little." 

"I  wish  I  thought  so !" 

Gentle  Mrs.  Haverford  glanced  up  at  him  quickly. 

"You  know  she  doesn't  approve  of  me." 

"Why,  Graham!" 

"Well,  ask  her,"  he  said.  And  there  was  a  real  bitterness 
under  the  lightness  of  his  tone.  "I'll  come,  of  course,  Mrs. 
Haverford.  Thank  you  for  asking  me.  I  haven't  a  lot  of 
time.  I'm  a  sort  of  clerk  down  at  the  mill,  you  know." 

Natalie  overheard,  and  her  eyes  met  Clayton's,  with  a  glance 
of  malicious  triumph.  She  had  been  deeply  resentful  that  he 
had  not  made  Graham  a  partner  at  once.  He  remembered  a 
conversation  they  had  had  a  few  months  before. 

"Why  should  he  have  to  start  at  the  bottom?"  she  had 
protested.  "You  have  never  been  quite  fair  to  him,  Clay." 
His  boyish  diminutive  had  stuck  to  him.  "You  expect  him  to 
know  as  much  about  the  mill  now  as  you  do,  after  all  these 
years." 

"Not  at  all.  I  want  him  to  learn.  That's  precisely  the 
reason  why  I'm  not  taking  him  in  at  once." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 19 

"How  much  salary  is  he  to  have?" 

"Three  thousand  a  year." 

"Three  thousand !  Why,  it  will  take  all  of  that  to  buy  him 
a  car." 

"There  are  three  cars  here  now;  I  should  think  he  could 
manage." 

"Every  boy  wants  his  own  car." 

"I  pay  my  other  managers  three  thousand,"  he  had  said, 
still  patient.  "He  will  live  here.  His  car  can  be  kept  here, 
without  expense.  Personally,  I  think  it  too  much  money  for 
the  service  he  will  be  able  to  give  for  the  first  year  or  two." 

And,  although  she  had  let  it  go  at  that,  he  had  felt  in 
her  a  keen  resentment.  Graham  had  got  a  car  of  his  own,  was 
using  it  hard,  if  the  bills  the  chauffeur  presented  were  an  in 
dication,  and  Natalie  had  overdrawn  her  account  two  thousand 
five  hundred  dollars. 

The  evening  wore  on.  Two  tables  of  bridge  were  going, 
with  Denis  Nolan  sitting  in  at  one.  Money  in  large  amounts 
was  being  written  in  on  the  bridge  scores.  The  air  of  the 
room  was  heavy  with  smoke,  and  all  the  men  and  some  of  the 
women  were  drinking  rather  too  much.  There  were  splotches 
of  color  under  the  tan  in  Graham's  cheeks,  and  even  Natalie's 
laughter  had  taken  on  a  higher  note. 

Chris's  words  rankled  in  Clayton  Spencer's  mind.  A  step 
from  the  Saturday  night  carouse.  How  much  better  was  this 
sort  of  thing?  A  dull  party,  driven  to  cards  and  drink  to  get 
through  the  evening.  And  what  sort  of  home  life  were  he  and 
Natalie  giving  the  boy?  Either  this,  or  the  dreary  evenings 
when  they  were  alone,  with  Natalie  sitting  with  folded  hands, 
or  withdrawing  to  her  boudoir  upstairs,  where  invariably 
she  summoned  Graham  to  talk  to  him  behind  closed  doors. 

He  went  into  the  library  and  shut  the  door.  The  room 
rested  him,  after  the  babble  across.  He  lighted  a  cigar,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  before  Natalie's  portrait.  It  had  been 
painted  while  he  was  abroad  at,  he  suspected,  Rodney's  insti 
gation.  It  left  him  quite  cold,  as  did  Natalie  herself. 


20 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

He  could  look  at  it  dispassionately,  as  he  had  never  quite 
cared  to  regard  Natalie.  Between  them,  personally,  there  was 
always  the  element  she  never  allowed  him  to  forget,  that  she 
had  given  him  a  son.  This  was  Natalie  herself,  Natalie  at 
forty-one,  girlish,  beautiful,  fretful  and — selfish.  Natalie 
with  whom  he  was  to  live  the  rest  of  his  life,  who  was  to  share 
his  wealth  and  his  future,  and  with  whom  he  shared  not  a 
single  thought  in  common. 

He  had  a  curious  sense  of  disloyalty  as  he  sat  down  at  his 
desk  and  picked  up  a  pad  and  pencil.  But  a  moment  later 
he  had  forgotten  her,  as  he  had  forgotten  the  party  across  the 
hall.  He  had  work  to  do.  Thank  God  for  work. 


CHAPTER  II 

NATALIE  was  in  bed  when  he  went  up-stairs.  Through 
the  door  of  his  dressing-room  he  could  see  her  lying, 
surrounded  by  papers.  Natalie's  handsome  bed  was  always 
covered  with  things,  her  handkerchief,  a  novel,  her  silk  dress 
ing-gown  flung  over  the  footboard,  sometimes  bits  of  dress 
materials  and  lace.  Natalie  did  most  of  her  planning  in  bed. 

He  went  in  and,  clearing  a  space,  sat  down  on  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  facing  her.  Her  hair  was  arranged  in  a  loose  knot 
on  top  of  her  head,  and  there  was  a  tiny  space,  perhaps  a  quar 
ter  of  an  inch,  slightly  darker  than  the  rest.  He  realized  with 
a  little  start  that  she  had  had  her  hair  touched  up  during  his 
absence.  Still,  she  looked  very  pretty,  her  skin  slightly  glis 
tening  with  its  night's  bath  of  cold  cream,  her  slim  arms 
lying  out  on  the  blue  silk  eiderdown  coverlet. 

"I  told  Doctor  Haverford  to-night  that  we  would  like  to 
give  him  a  car,  Natalie,"  he  began  directly.  It  was  typical  of 
him,  the  "we." 

"A  car?    What  for?" 

"To  ride  about  in,  my  dear.  It's  rather  a  large  parish,  you 
know.  And  I  don't  feel  exactly  comfortable  seeing  him  tramp 
ing  along  when  most  people  are  awheel.  He's  not  very 
young." 

"He'll  kill  himself,  that's  all." 

"Well,  that's  rather  up  to  Providence,  of  course." 

"You  are  throwing  a  sop  to  Providence,  aren't  you?"  she 
asked  shrewdly.  "Throwing  bread  on  the  waters !  I  daresay 
he  angled  for  it.  You're  easy,  Clay.  Give  you  a  good  dinner 
— it  was  a  nice  dinner,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"A  very  nice  dinner,"  he  assented.  But  at  the  tone  she 
looked  up. 

21 


22 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Well,  what  was  wrong?"  she  demanded.  "I  saw  when  I 
went  out  that  you  were  angry  about  something.  Your  face 
was  awful." 

"Oh,  come  now,  Natalie,"  he  protested.  "It  wasn't  anything 
of  the  sort.  The  dinner  was  all  right.  The  guests  were — 
all  right.  I  may  have  unconsciously  resented  your  attitude 
about  Doctor  Haverford.  Certainly  he  didn't  angle  for  it,  and 
I  had  no  idea  of  throwing  a  sop  to  Providence." 

"That  isn't  what  was  wrong  at  dinner." 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to  tell  you  ?" 

"Not  if  it's  too  disagreeable." 

"Good  heavens,  Natalie.    One  would  think  I  bullied  you !" 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't  bully.  It's  worse.  It's  the  way  you 
look.  Your  face  sets.  Well?" 

"I  didn't  feel  unpleasant.  It's  rather  my  misfortune  that 
my  face " 

"Didn't  you  like  my  gown  ?" 

"Very  much.  It  seemed  a  trifle  low,  but  you  know  I  always 
like  your  clothes."  He  was  almost  pathetically  anxious  to 
make  up  to  her  for  that  moment's  disloyalty  in  the  library. 

"There !"  she  said,  brushing  the  papers  aside.  "Now  we're 
getting  at  it.  Was  I  anything  like  as  low  as  Audrey  Valen 
tine?  Of  course  not!  Her  back You  just  drive  me  u> 

despair,  Clay.  Nothing  I  do  pleases  you.  The  very  tone  o* 
that  secretary  of  yours  to-day,  when  I  told  her  about  that  over 
draft — it  was  positively  insulting!" 

"I  don't  like  overdrafts,"  he  said,  without  any  irritation. 
"When  you  want  extra  amounts  you  have  only  to  let  me 
know." 

"You  are  always  rinding  fault  with  me,"  she  complained. 
"It's  either  money,  or  my  clothes,  or  Graham,  or  something." 
Her  eyes  filled.  She  looked  young  and  absurdly  childish.  But 
a  talk  he  had  had  with  the  rector  was  still  in  his  mind.  It  was 
while  they  were  still  at  the  table,  and  Nolan  had  been  attack 
ing  the  British  government. 

"We  get  out  of  this  world  largely  what  we  put  into  it,"  he 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 23 

had  said.  "You  give  largely,  Clay,  and  you  receive  largely.  I 
rejoice  in  your  prosperity,  because  you  have  earned  it." 

"You  think,  then,"  he  had  asked,  "that  we  only  receive  as 
we  give?  I  don't  mean  material  things,  of  course." 

The  rector  had  fixed  him  with  kindly,  rather  faded  old  eyes. 

"That  has  been  my  experience,"  he  said.  "Happiness  for 
instance  only  comes  when  we  forget  our  eternal  search  for 
it,  and  try  to  make  others  happy.  Even  religion  is  changing. 
The  old  selfish  idea  of  saving  our  own  souls  has  given  way 
largely  to  the  saving  of  others,  by  giving  them  a  chance  to 
redeem  themselves.  Decent  living  conditions " 

He  had  gone  on,  but  Clayton  had  not  listened  very  intently. 
He  had  been  wondering  if  happiness  was  not  the  thing  he  had 
somehow  missed.  It  was  then  that  he  had  decided  to  give 
the  car.  If,  after  all,  that  would  make  for  the  rector's  happi 
ness 

"I  don't  want  to  find  fault  with  you,  Natalie,"  he  said 
gravely.  "I  would  like  to  see  you  happy.  Sometimes  I  think 
you  are  not.  I  have  my  business,  but  you  have  nothing  to  do, 
and — I  suppose  you  wouldn't  be  interested  in  war-work,  would 
you?  There  are  a  lot  of  committees,  and  since  I've  been  in 
England  I  realize  what  a  vast  amount  is  needed.  Clothes, 
you  know,  and  bandages,  and — well,  everything." 

"Nothing  to  do,"  she  looked  up,  her  eyes  wide  and  indig 
nant.  "But  of  course  you  would  think  that.  This  house  runs 
itself,  I  suppose." 

"Let's  be  honest,  Natalie,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  impa 
tience.  "Actually  how  much  time  each  day  do  you  give  this 
house?  You  have  plenty  of  trained  servants.  An  hour?  Two 
hours?" 

"I'll  not  discuss  it  with  you."  She  took  up  a  typewritten 
sheet  and  pretended  to  read  it  carefully.  Clayton  had  a 
half-humorous,  half-irritated  conviction  that  if  he  was  actu 
ally  hunting  happiness  he  had  begun  his  search  for  it  rather 
badly.  He  took  the  paper  from  her,  gently. 

"What's  this?"  he  inquired.    "Anything  I  should  not  see?" 


24 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Decorator's  estimates  for  the  new  house."  Her  voice  was 
resentful.  "You'll  have  to  see  them  some  time." 

"Library  curtains,  gray  Chippendale  velvet,  gold  gimp,  faced 
with  colonial  yellow,"  he  read  an  item  picked  at  random,  "two 
thousand  dollars  !  That's  going  some  for  curtains,  isn't  it  ?" 

"It's  not  too  much  for  that  sort  of  thing." 

"But,  look  here,  Natalie,"  he  expostulated.  "This  is  to  be 
a  country  house,  isn't  it?  I  thought  you  wanted  chintzed 
and  homey  things.  This  looks  like  a  city  house  in  the  coun- 
try." 

He  glanced  down  at  the  total.  The  hangings  alone,  with  a 
tapestry  or  two,  were  to  be  thirty-five  thousand  dollars.  He 
whistled. 

"Hangings  alone !  And — what  sort  of  a  house  has  Rodney 
planned,  anyhow?" 

"Italian,  with  a  sunken  garden.  The  landscape  estimates 
are  there,  too." 

He  did  not  look  at  them. 

"It  seems  to  me  you  and  Rodney  have  been  pretty  busy  while 
I've  been  away,"  he  remarked.  "Well,  I  want  you  to  be 
happy,  my  dear.  Only — I  don't  want  to  tie  up  a  fortune  just 
now.  We  may  get  into  this  war,  and  if  we  do — — "  He  rose, 
and  yawned,  his  arms  above  his  head.  "I'm  off  to  bed,"  he 
said.  "Big  day  to-morrow.  I'll  want  Graham  at  the  office 
at  8:30." 

She  had  sat  up  in  bed,  and  was  staring  at  him.  Her  face 
was  pale. 

"Do  you  mean  that  we  are  going  to  get  into  this  war  ?" 

"I  think  it  very  likely,  my  dear." 

"But  if  we  do,  Graham " 

"We  might  as  well  face  it.    Graham  will  probably  want  to 

go." 

"He'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  she  said  sharply.  "He's  all 
I  have.  All.  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  send  him  over  there 
to  be  cannon-fodder  ?  I  won't  let  him  go." 

She  was  trembling  violently. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  25 

"I  won't  want  him  to  go,  of  course.  But  if  the  thing  comes 
— he's  of  age,  you  know." 

She  eyed  him  with  thinly  veiled  hostility. 

"You're  hard,  Clay,"  she  accused  him.  "You're  hard  all 
the  way  through.  You're  proud,  too.  Proud  and  hard.  You'd 
want  to  be  able  to  say  your  son  was  in  the  army.  It's  not 
because  you  care  anything  about  the  war,  except  to  make 
money  out  of  it.  What  is  the  war  to  you,  anyhow?  You 
don't  like  the  English,  and  as  for  French — you  don't  even  let 
me  have  a  French  butler." 

He  was  not  the  less  angry  because  he  realized  the  essential 
truth  of  part  of  what  she  said.  He  felt  no  great  impulse  of 
sympathy  with  any  of  the  combatants.  He  knew  the  gravity 
of  the  situation  rather  than  its  tragedy.  He  did  not  like  war, 
any  war.  He  saw  no  reason  why  men  should  kill.  But  this 
war  was  a  fact.  He  had  had  no  hand  in  its  making,  but 
it  was  made. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  leave  her  in  dignified  silence. 
But  she  was  crying,  and  he  disliked  leaving  her  in  tears.  Dead 
as  was  his  love  for  her,  and  that  night,  somehow,  he  knew 
that  it  was  dead,  she  was  still  his  wife.  They  had  had  some 
fairly  happy  years  together,  long  ago.  And  he  felt  the 
need,  too,  of  justification. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  Natalie,"  he  said,  after  a  moment. 
"I  haven't  cared  about  this  war  as  much  as  I  should.  Not  the 
human  side  of  it,  anyhow.  But  you  ought  to  understand  that 
by  making  shells  for  the  Allies,  I  am  not  only  making  money 
for  myself ;  they  need  the  shells.  And  I'll  give  them  the  best. 
I  don't  intend  only  to  profit  by  their  misfortunes." 

She  had  hardly  listened. 

"Then,  if  we  get  into  it,  as  you  say,  you'll  encourage  Gra 
ham  to  go?" 

"I  shall  allow  him  to  go,  if  he  feels  it  his  duty." 

"Oh,  duty,  duty !  I'm  sick  of  the  word."  She  bent  forward 
and  suddenly  caught  one  of  his  hands.  "You  won't  make  him 


26 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

go,  Clay  ?"  she  begged.  You — you'll  let  him  make  his  own  de 
cision  ?" 

"If  you  will." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"If  you'll  keep  your  hands  off,  too.  We're  not  in  it,  yet. 
God  knows  I  hope  we  won't  be.  But  if  I  promise  not  to  in 
fluence  him,  you  must  do  the  same  thing." 

"I  haven't  any  more  influence  over  Graham  than  that,"  she 
said,  and  snapped  her  finger.  But  she  did  not  look  at  him. 

"Promise,"  he  said,  steadily. 

"Oh,  all  right."  Her  voice  and  face  were  sulky.  She  looked 
ttiuch  as  Graham  had  that  evening  at  the  table. 

"Is  that  a  promise?" 

"Good  heavens,  do  you  want  me  to  swear  to  it?" 

"I  want  you  to  play  fair.    That's  all." 

She  leaned  back  again  among  her  pillows  and  gathered  up 
her  papers. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  indifferently.  "Have  you  any  pref 
erence  as  to  color  for  your  rooms  in  the  new  house  ?" 

He  was  sorry  for  his  anger,  and  after  all,  these  things  which 
seemed  so  unimportant  to  him  were  the  things  that  made  up 
her  life.  He  smiled. 

"You  might  match  my  eyes.  I'm  not  sure  what  color  they 
are.  Perhaps  you  know." 

But  she  had  not  forgiven  him. 

"I've  never  noticed,"  she  replied.  And,  small  bundle  of 
samples  in  her  hand,  resumed  her  reading  and  her  inspection 
of  textiles. 

"Good  night,  Natalie." 

"Good  night."     She  did  not  look  up. 

Outside  his  wife's  door  he  hesitated.  Then  he  crossed  and 
without  knocking  entered  Graham's  bedroom.  The  boy  was 
lounging  in  a  long  chair  by  an  open  fire.  He  was  in  his 
dressing  gown  and  slippers,  and  an  empty  whiskey-and-soda 
glass  stood  beside  him  on  a  small  stand.  Graham  was  sound 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 27 

asleep.  Clayton  touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  but  he  slept  on, 
his  head  to  one  side,  his  breathing  slow  and  heavy.  It  re 
quired  some  little  effort  to  waken  him. 

"Graham!"  said  Clayton  sharply. 

"Yes."    He  stirred,  but  did  not  open  his  eyes. 

"Graham!    Wake  up,  boy." 

Graham  sat  up  suddenly  and  looked  at  him.  The  whites  of 
his  eyes  were  red,  but  he  had  slept  off  the  dinner  wine.  He 
was  quite  himself. 

"Better  get  to  bed,"  his  father  suggested.  "I'll  want  you 
early  to-morrow." 

"What  time,  sir?" 

He  leaned  forward  and  pressed  a  button  beside  the  mantel 
piece. 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for?" 

"Ice  water.    Awfully  thirsty." 

"The  servants  have  gone  to  bed.  Go  down  and  get  it  your 
self." 

Graham  looked  up  at  the  tone.  At  his  father's  eyes,  he 
looked  away. 

"Sorry,  sir,"  he  said.  "Must  have  had  too  much  champagne. 
Wasn't  much  else  to  do,  was  there?  Mother's  parties — my 
God,  what  a  dreary  lot !" 

Clayton  inspected  the  ice  water  carafe  on  the  stand  and 
found  it  empty. 

"I'll  bring  you  some  water  from  my  room,"  he  said.  "And 
— I  don't  want  to  see  you  this  way  again,  Graham.  When  a 
man  cannot  take  a  little  wine  at  his  own  table  without  taking 
too  much  he  fails  to  be  entirely  a  gentleman." 

He  went  out.  When  he  came  back,  Graham  was  standing 
by  the  fire  in  his  pajamas,  looking  young  and  rather  ashamed. 
Clayton  had  a  flash  of  those  earlier  days  when  he  had  come  in 
to  bid  the  boy  good  night,  and  there  had  always  been  that 
last  request  for  water  which  was  to  postpone  the  final  switch 
ing  off  of  the  light. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 


"I'm  sorry,  father." 

Clayton  put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder  and  patted  him. 

"We'll  have  to  do  better  next  time.    That's  all." 

For  a  moment  the  veil  of  constraint  of  Natalie's  weaving 
lifted  between  them. 

"I'm  a  pretty  bad  egg,  I  guess.  You'd  better  shove  me  off 
the  dock  and  let  me  swim  —  or  drown." 

"I'd  hardly  like  to  do  that,  you  know.    You  are  all  I  have." 

"I'm  no  good  at  the  mill." 

"You  haven't  had  very  much  time.  I've  been  a  good  many 
years  learning  the  business." 

"I'll  never  be  any  good.  Not  there.  If  there  was  some 
thing  to  build  up  it  would  be  different,  but  it's  all  done.  You've 
done  it.  I'm  only  a  sort  of  sublimated  clerk.  I  don't  mean," 
he  added  hastily,  "that  I  think  I  ought  to  have  anything  more. 
It's  only  that  —  well,  the  struggle's  over,  if  you  know  what  I 
mean." 

"I'll  talk  to  you  about  that  to-morrow.  Get  to  bed  now. 
It's  one  o'clock." 

He  moved  to  the  doorway.  Graham,  carafe  in  hand,  stood 
staring  ahead  of  him.  He  had  the  courage  of  the  last  whiskey- 
and-soda,  and  a  sort  of  desperate  contrition. 

"Father." 

"Yes,  Graham." 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  go  to  France  and  fly." 

Something  like  a  cold  hand  seemed  to  close  round  Clay 
ton's  heart. 

"Fly!    Why?" 

"Because  I'm  not  doing  any  good  here.  And  —  because  I'd 
like  to  see  if  I  have  any  good  stuff  in  me.  All  the  fellows 
are  going,"  he  added,  rather  weakly. 

"That's  not  a  particularly  worthy  reason,  is  it  ?" 

"It's  about  as  worthy  as  making  money  out  of  shells,  wb«p 
we  haven't  any  reason  for  selling  them  to  the  Allies  more  tnan 
the  Germans,  except  that  we  can't  ship  to  the  Germans." 

He  looked  rather  frightened  then.     But  Clayton  was  not 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 29 

angry.    He  saw  Natalie's  fine  hand  there,  and  the  boy's  impres 
sionable  nature. 

"Think  that  over,  Graham/'  he  said  gravely.  "I  don't  be 
lieve  you  quite  mean  it.  Good-night." 

He  went  across  to  his  own  bedroom,  where  his  silk  pajamas, 
neatly  folded,  lay  on  his  painted  Louis  XVI  bed.  Under  his 
reading  lamp  there  was  a  book.  It  was  a  part  of  Natalie's 
decorative  scheme  for  the  room;  it's  binding  was  mauve,  to 
match  the  hangings.  For  the  first  time  since  the  room  had 
been  done  over  during  his  absence  he  picked  up  the  book. 

"Rodney's  idea,  for  a  cent!"  he  reflected,  looking  rather 
grimly  at  the  cover. 

He  undressed  slowly,  his  mind  full  of  Graham  and  the 
problem  he  presented.  Then  he  thought  of  Natalie,  and  of  the 
little  things  that  made  up  her  life  and  filled  her  days.  He 
glanced  about  the  room,  beautiful,  formal,  exquisitely  ap 
pointed.  His  father's  portrait  was  gone  from  over  the  mantel, 
and  an  old  French  water-color  hung  there  instead.  That  was 
too  bad  of  Natalie.  Or  had  it  been  Rodney  ?  He  would  bring 
it  back.  And  he  gave  a  fleeting  thought  to  Graham  and  his 
request  to  go  abroad.  He  had  not  meant  it.  It  was  sheer 
reaction.  But  he  would  talk  to  Graham. 

He  lighted  a  cigaret,  and  getting  into  bed  turned  on  his 
reading  lamp.  Queer  how  a  man  could  build,  and  then  find 
that  after  all  he  did  not  care  for  the  achievement.  It  was 
the  building  alone  that  was  worth  while, 
i  He  picked  up  the  book  from  the  table,  and  opened  it  casu 
ally. 

"When  first  I  loved  I  gave  my  very  soul 
Utterly  unreserved  to  Love's  control, 
But  Love  deceived  me,  wrenched  my  youth  away, 
And  made  the  gold  of  life  forever  gray. 
Long  I  lived  lonely,  yet  I  tried  in  vain 
With  any  other  joy  to  stifle  pain; 
There  is  no  other  joy,  I  learned  to  know, 
And  so  returned  to  love,  as  long  ago, 
Yet  I,  this  little  while  ere  I  go  hence, 
Love  very  lightly  now,  in  self  defense." 


30 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Twaddle,"  said  Clayton  Spencer,  and  put  the  book  away. 
That  was  the  sort  of  stuff  men  like  Rodney  lived  on.  In  a 
mauve  binding,  too. 

After  he  had  put  out  the  light  he  lay  for  a  long  time,  star 
ing  into  the  darkness.  It  was  not  love  he  wanted:  he  was 
through  with  all  that.  Power  was  the  thing,  integrity  and 
power.  To  yield  to  no  man,  to  achieve  independence  for  one's 
soul — not  that  he  put  it  that  way.  He  formulated  it,  drowsily : 
'Not  to  give  a  damn  for  any  one,  so  long  as  you're  right.'  Of 
course,  it  was  not  always  possible  to  know  if  one  was  right. 
He  yawned.  His  conscious  mind  was  drowsing,  and  from  the 
depths  below,  released  of  the  sentry  of  his  waking  hours,  came 
the  call  of  his  starved  imagination. 


CHAPTER  III 

THERE  was  no  moral  to  be  adduced  from  Graham's  wak 
ing  the  next  morning.  He  roused,  reluctantly  enough, 
but  blithe  and  hungry.  He  sang  as  he  splashed  in  his  shower, 
chose  his  tie  whistling,  and  went  down  the  staircase  two  steps 
at  a  time  to  a  ravenous  breakfast. 

Clayton  was  already  at  the  table  in  the  breakfast  room, 
sitting  back  with  the  newspaper,  his  coffee  at  his  elbow,  the 
first  cigarette  of  the  morning  half  smoked.  He  looked  rather 
older  in  the  morning  light.  Small  fine  threads  had  begun  to 
show  themselves  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  The  lines  of 
repression  from  the  nostrils  to  the  corners  of  the  mouth 
seemed  deeper.  But  his  invincible  look  of  boyishness  per 
sisted,  at  that. 

There  was  no  awkwardness  in  Graham's  "Morning,  dad." 
He  had  not  forgotten  the  night  before,  but  he  had  already  for 
given  himself.  He  ignored  the  newspaper  at  his  plate,  and 
dug  into  his  grapefruit. 

"Anything  new?"  he  inquired  casually. 

"You  might  look  and  see/'  Clayton  suggested,  good-natur 
edly. 

"I'll  read  going  down  in  the  car.  Can't  stand  war  news 
on  an  empty  stomach.  Mother  all  right  this  morning?" 

"I  think  she  is  still  sleeping." 

"Well,  I  should  say  she  needs  it,  after  last  night.  How  in 
the  world  we  manage,  with  all  the  interesting  people  in  the 
world,  to  get  together  such  a  dreary  lot  as  that — Lord,  it  was 
awful." 

Clayton  rose  and  folded  his  paper. 

"The  car's  waiting,"  he  said.    "I'll  be  ready  in  five  minutes." 

He  went  slowly  up  the  stairs.  In  her  pink  bedroom  Nat- 

31 


32 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

alie  had  just  wakened.  Madeleine,  her  elderly  French  maid, 
had  brought  her  breakfast,  and  she  was  lying  back  among  the 
pillows,  the  litter  of  the  early  mail  about  her  and  a  morning 
paper  on  her  knee.  He  bent  over  and  kissed  her,  perfunc 
torily,  and  he  was  quick  to  see  that  her  resentment  of  the  even 
ing  before  had  survived  the  night. 

"Sleep  well?"  he  inquired,  looking  down  at  her.  She 
evaded  his  eyes. 

"Not  particularly." 

"Any  plans  for  to-day?" 

"I'll  just  play  around.  I'm  lunching  out,  and  I  may  run  out 
with  Rodney  to  Linndale.  The  landscape  men  are  there  to 
day." 

She  picked  up  the  newspaper  as  though  to  end  the  discus 
sion.  He  saw  then  that  she  was  reading  the  society  news, 
and  he  rather  more  than  surmised  that  she  had  not  even 
glanced  at  the  black  headings  which  on  the  first  page  an 
nounced  the  hideous  casualties  of  the  Somme. 

"Then  you've  given  the  planting  contract?" 

"Some  things  have  to  go  in  in  the  fall,  Clay.  For  heaven's 
sake,  don't  look  like  a  thunder  cloud." 

"Have  you  given  the  landscape  contract  ?" 

"Yes.    And  please  go  out.    You  make  my  head  ache." 

"How  much  is  it  to  be?" 

"I  don't  know.    Ask  Rodney." 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  my  dear.  This  is  not  Rodney's 
investment." 

"Nor  mine,  I  suppose !" 

"All  I  want  you  to  do,  Natalie,  is  to  consult  me.  I  want 
you  to  have  a  free  hand,  but  some  one  with  a  sense  of  re 
sponsibility  ought  to  check  up  these  expenditures.  But  it  isn't 
only  that.  I'd  like  to  have  a  hand  in  the  thing  myself.  I've 
rather  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  we  could  have  the 
sort  of  country  place  we  wanted." 

"You  don't  like  any  of  the  strings  to  get  out  of  your  fin 
gers,  do  you?" 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 33 

"I  didn't  come  up  to  quarrel,  Natalie.  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
force  it  on  me." 

"I  force  it  on  you,"  she  cried,  and  laughed  in  a  forced  and 
high-pitched  note.  "Just  because  I  won't  be  over-ridden 
without  a  protest!  I'm  through,  that's  all.  I  shan't  go  near 
the  place  again." 

"You  don't  understand,"  he  persisted  patiently.  "I  happen 
to  like  gardens.  I  had  an  idea — I  told  you  about  it — of  trying 
to  duplicate  the  old  garden  at  home.  You  remember  it.  When 
we  went  there  on  our  honeymoon " 

"You  don't  call  that  a  garden?" 

"Of  course  I  didn't  want  to  copy  it  exactly.  It  was  old  and 
out  of  condition.  But  there  were  a  lot  of  old-fashioned  flow 
ers However,  if  you  intend  to  build  an  Italian  villa, 

naturally " 

"I  don't  intend  to  build  anything,  or  to  plant  anything." 
Her  voice  was  frozen.  "You  go  ahead.  Do  it  in  your  own 
>yay.  And  then  you  can  live  there,  if  you  like.  I  won't." 

Which  was  what  he  carried  away  with  him  that  morning 
to  the  mill.  He  was  not  greatly  disturbed  by  her  threat  to 
keep  her  hands  off.  He  knew  quite  well,  indeed,  that  the 
afternoon  would  find  her,  with  Rodney  Page,  picking  her 
way  in  her  high-heeled  shoes  over  the  waste  that  was  some 
day  to  bloom,  not  like  the  rose  of  his  desire  but  according  to 
the  formal  and  rigid  blueprint  which  Rodney  would  be  carry 
ing.  But  in  five  minutes  he  had  put  the  incident  out  of  his 
mind.  After  all,  if  it  gave  her  happiness  and  occupation,  cer 
tainly  she  needed  both.  And  his  powers  of  inhibition  were 
strong.  For  many  years  he  had  walled  up  the  small  frictions 
of  his  married  life  and  its  disappointments,  and  outside  that 
wall  had  built  up  an  existence  of  his  own,  which  was  the  mill. 

When  he  went  down-stairs  he  found  that  Graham  had 
ordered  his  own  car  and  was  already  in  it,  drawing  on  his 
gloves. 

"Have  to  come  back  up-town  early,  dad,"  he  called  in  ex- 


34  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

planation,  and  drove  off,  going  at  the  reckless  speed  he  af 
fected. 

Clayton  rode  down  alone  in  the  limousine.  He  had  meant 
to  outline  his  plans  of  expansion  to  Graham,  but  he  had  had 
no  intention  of  consulting  him.  In  his  own  department  the 
boy  did  neither  better  nor  worse  than  any  other  of  the  dozens 
of  young  men  in  the  organization.  If  he  had  shown  neither 
special  aptitude  for  nor  interest  in  the  business,  he  had  at 
least  not  signally  failed  to  show  either.  Now,  paper  and 
pencil  in  hand,  Clayton  jotted  down  the  various  details  of  the 
new  system  in  their  sequence ;  the  building  of  a  forging  plant 
to  make  the  rough  casts  for  the  new  Italian  shells  out  of  the 
steel  from  the  furnaces,  the  construction  of  a  new  spur  to  the 
little  railway  which  bound  the  old  plant  together  with  its  shin 
ing  steel  rails.  There  were  questions  of  supplies  and  shipping 
and  bank  credits  to  face,  the  vast  and  complex  problems  of 
the  complete  new  munition  works,  to  be  built  out  of  town  ar*d 
involving  such  matters  as  the  housing  of  enormous  numbers 
of  employees.  He  scrawled  figures  and  added  them.  Even 
with  the  size  of  the  foreign  contract  their  magnitude  startled 
him.  He  leaned  back,  his  mouth  compressed,  the  lines  from 
the  nostrils  to  the  corners  deeper  than  ever. 

He  had  completely  forgotten  Natalie  and  the  country  house. 

Outside  the  gates  to  the  mill  enclosure  he  heard  an  early  extra 
being  called,  and  bought  it.  The  Austrian  premier  had  been 
assassinated.  The  successful  French  counter-attack  against 
Verdun  was  corroborated,  also.  On  the  center  of  the  front 
page  was  the  first  photograph  to  reach  America  of  a  tank.  He 
inspected  it  with  interest.  So  the  Allies  had  at  last  shown 
some  inventive  genius  of  their  own !  Perhaps  this  was  but  the 
beginning.  Even  at  that,  enough  of  these  fighting  mammoths, 
and  the  war  might  end  quickly.  With  the  tanks,  and  the  Al 
lied  offensive  and  the  evidence  of  discontent  in  Austria,  the 
thing  might  after  all  be  over  before  America  was  involved. 

He  reflected,  however,  that  an  early  peace  would  not  be  an 
unmixed  blessing  for  him.  He  wanted  the  war  to  end:  he 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 35 

hated  killing.  He  felt  inarticulately  that  something  horrible 
was  happening  to  the  world.  But  personally  his  plans  were 
premised  on  a  war  to  last  at  least  two  years  more,  until  the  fall 
of  1918.  That  would  let  him  out,  cover  the  cost  of  the  new 
plant,  bring  renewals  of  his  foreign  contracts,  justify  those 
stupendous  figures  on  the  paper  in  his  hand. 

He  wondered,  rather  uncomfortably,  what  he  would  do, 
under  the  circumstances,  if  it  were  in  his  power  to  declare 
peace  to-morrow. 

In  his  office  in  the  mill  administration  building,  he  found  the 
general  manager  waiting.  Through  the  door  into  the  confer 
ence  room  beyond  he  could  see  the  superintendents  of  the 
various  departments,  with  Graham  rather  aloof  and  detached, 
and  a  sprinkling  of  the  most  important  foremen.  On  his  desk, 
neatly  machined,  was  the  first  tentative  shell-case  made  in  the 
mill  machine-shop,  an  experiment  rather  than  a  realization. 

Hutchinson,  the  general  manager,  was  not  alone.  Opposite 
him,  very  neatly  dressed  in  his  best  clothes,  his  hat  in  his  hand 
and  a  set  expression  on  his  face,  was  one  of  the  boss  rollers  of 
the  steel  mill,  Herman  Klein.  At  Clayton's  entrance  he  made 
a  motion  to  depart,  but  Hutchinson  stopped  him. 

"Tell  Mr.  Spencer  what  you've  been  telling  me,  Klein,"  he 
said  curtly. 

Klein  fingered  his  hat,  but  his  face  remained  set. 

"I've  just  been  saying,  Mr.  Spencer,"  he  said,  in  good  Eng 
lish,  but  with  the  guttural  accent  which  thirty  years  in  America 
had  not  eliminated,  "that  I'll  be  leaving  you  now." 

"Leaving!     Why?" 

"Because  of  that!"    He  pointed,  without  intentional  drama, 
at  the  shell-case.     "I  can't  make  those  shells  for  you,  Mr. 
Spencer,  and  me  a  German." 
.   "You're  an  American,  aren't  you?" 

"I  am,  sir.     It  is  not  that.     It  iss  that  I "     His  face 

worked.  He  had  dropped  back  to  the  old  idiom,  after  years  of 
painful  struggle  to  abandon  it.  "It  iss  that  I  am  a  German, 


36 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

also.  I  have  people  there,  ir  the  war.  To  make  shells  to  kill 
them — no." 

"He  is  determined,  Mr.  Spencer,"  said  Hutchinson.  "I  have 
been  arguing  with  him,  but — you  can't  argue  with  a  German." 

Clayton  was  uneasily  aware  of  something  like  sympathy  for 
the  man. 

"I  understand  how  you  feel,  Klein,"  he  observed.  "But 
of  course  you  know,  whether  you  go  or  stay,  the  shells  will  be 
made,  anyhow." 

"I  know  that." 

"You  are  throwing  up  a  good  position." 

"I'll  try  to  get  another." 

The  prospective  loss  of  Klein  was  a  rather  serious  one. 
Clayton,  seated  behind  his  great  desk,  eyed  him  keenly,  and 
then  stooped  to  bribery.  He  mentioned  a  change  in  the  wage 
scale,  with  bonuses  to<  all  foremen  and  rollers.  He  knew 
Klein's  pride  in  the  mill,  and  he  outlined  briefly  the  growth 
that  was  about  to  be  developed.  But  the  boss  roller  remained 
obdurate.  He  understood  that  such  things  were  to  be,  but  it 
was  not  necessary  that  he  assist  Germany's  enemies  against 
her.  Against  the  determination  in  his  heavy  square  figure 
Clayton  argued  in  vain. 

When,  ten  minutes  later,  he  went  into  the  conference  room, 
followed  by  a  secretary  with  a  sheaf  of  papers,  the  mill  was 
minus  a  boss  roller,  and  there  was  rankling  in  his  mind  Klein's 
last  words. 

"I  haf  no  objection,  Mr.  Spencer,  to  your  making  money 
out  of  this  war,  but  I  will  not." 

There  had  been  no  insolence  in  his  tone.  He  had  gone  out, 
with  his  heavy  German  stolidity  of  mien  unchanged,  and  had 
closed  the  door  behind  him  with  quiet  finality. 


CHAPTER  IV 

GRAHAM  left  the  conference  that  morning  in  a  rather 
exalted  mood.  The  old  mill  was  coming  into  its  own  at 
last.  He  had  a  sense  of  boyish  triumph  in  the  new  develop 
ments,  a  feeling  of  being  a  part  of  big  activities  that  would 
bring  rich  rewards.  And  he  felt  a  new  pride  in  his  father. 
He  had  sat,  a  little  way  from  the  long  table,  and  had  watched 
the  faces  of  the  men  gathered  about  it  as  clearly  and  forcibly 
the  outlines  of  the  new  departure  were  given  out.  Hitherto 
"Spencer's"  had  made  steel  only.  Now,  they  were  not  only  to 
make  the  steel,  but  they  were  to  forge  the  ingots  into  rough 
casts ;  these  casts  were  then  to  be  carried  to  the  new  munition 
works,  there  to  be  machined,  drilled,  polished,  provided  with 
fuses,  which  "Spencer's"  were  also  to  make,  and  shipped 
abroad. 

The  question  of  speeding  production  had  been  faced  and 
met.  The  various  problems  had  been  discussed  and  the  bonus 
system  tentatively  taken  up.  Then  the  men  had  dispersed, 
each  infected  with  the  drive  of  his  father's  contagious  force. 

"Pretty  fine  old  boy,"  Graham  had  considered.  And  he 
wondered  vaguely  if,  when  his  time  came,  he  would  be  able  to 
take  hold.  For  a  few  minutes  Natalie's  closetings  lost  their 
effect.  He  saw  his  father,  not  as  one  from  whom  to  hide 
extravagance  and  unpaid  bills,  but  as  the  head  of  a  great 
concern  that  was  now  to  be  a  part  of  the  war  itself. 

He  wandered  into  his  father's  office,  and  picked  up  the 
shell.  Clayton  was  already  at  his  letters,  but  looked  up. 

"Think  we  rather  had  them,  eh,  Graham?" 

"Think  you  did,  sir.  Carried  them  off  their  feet.  Pretty, 
isn't  it?"  He  held  up  the  shell-case.  "If  a  fellow  could  only 
forget  what  the  damned  things  are  for!" 

37 


38        '  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"They  are  to  help  to  end  the  war,"  said  Clayton,  crisply. 
"Don't  forget  that,  boy."  And  went  back  to  his  steady  dic 
tation. 

Graham  went  out  of  the  building  into  the  mill  yard.  The 
noise  always  irritated  him.  He  had  none  of  Clayton's  joy 
and  understanding  of  it.  To  Clayton  each  sound  had  its  cor 
responding  activity.  To  Graham  it  was  merely  din,  an  annoy 
ance  to  his  ears,  as  the  mill  yard  outraged  his  fastidiousness. 
But  that  morning  he  found  it  rather  more  bearable.  He 
stooped  where,  in  front  of  the  store,  the  storekeeper  had 
planted  a  tiny  garden.  Some  small  late-blossoming  chrysan 
themums  were  still  there  and  he  picked  one  and  put  it  in  his 
buttonhole. 

His  own  office  was  across  the  yard.  He  dodged  in  front  of 
a  yard  locomotive,  picked  his  way  about  masses  of  lumber  and 
the  general  litter  of  all  mill  yards,  and  opened  the  door  of  his 
own  building.  Just  inside  his  office  a  girl  was  sitting  on  a 
straight  chair,  her  hat  a  trifle  crooked,  and  her  eyes  red  from 
crying.  He  paused  in  amazement. 

"Why,  Miss  Klein !"  he  said.    "What's  the  matter  ?" 

She  was  rather  a  pretty  girl,  even  now.  She  stood  up  at  his 
voice  and  made  an  effort  to  straighten  her  hat. 

"Haven't  you  heard  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  haven't  heard  anything  that  ought  to  make  Miss  Anna 
Klein  weep  of  a  nice,  frosty  morning  in  October.  Unless — — " 
he  sobered,  for  her  grief  was  evident.  "Tell  me  about  it." 

"Father  has  given  up  his  job." 

"No !" 

"I'm  telling  you,  Mr.  Spencer.  He  won't  help  to  make 
those  shells.  He's  been  acting  queer  for  three  or  four  days 
and  this  morning  he  told  your  father." 

Graham  whistled. 

"As  if  it  made  any  difference,"  she  went  on  irritably.  "Some 
one  else  will  get  his  job.  That's  all.  What  does  he  care  about 
the  Germans?  He  left  them  and  came  to  America  as  soon 
ajs  he  could  walk." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 


Graham  sat  down. 

"Now  let's  get  this,"  he  said.  "He  won't  make  shells  for  the 
Allies  and  so  he's  given  up  his  position.  All  right.  That's 
bad,  but  he's  a  good  workman.  He'll  not  have  any  trouble 
getting  another  job.  Now,  why  are  you  crying?" 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  want  me  to  stay  on." 

Putting  her  fear  into  words  brought  back  her  long  hours 
of  terror.  She  collapsed  into  the  chair  again  and  fell  to  un 
quiet  sobbing.  Graham  was  disturbed. 

"You're  a  queer  girl,"  he  said.  "Why  should  that  lose  me 
my  most  valued  assistant?" 

When  she  made  no  reply  he  got  up  and  going  over  to  her 
put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "Tell  me  that,"  he  said. 

He  looked  down  at  her.  The  hair  grew  very  soft  and  blonde 
at  the  nape  of  her  neck,  and  he  ran  a  finger  lightly  across  it. 
"Tell  me  that." 

"I  was  afraid  it  would." 

"And,  even  if  it  had,  which  you  are  a  goose  for  thinking, 
you're  just  as  good  in  your  line  as  your  father  is  in  his.  I've 
been  expecting  any  time  to  hear  of  your  leaving  me  for  a 
handsomer  man  !" 

He  had  been  what  he  would  have  termed  jollying  her  back 
to  normality  again.  But  to  his  intense  surprise  she  suddenly 
leaned  back  and  looked  up  into  his  face.  There  was  no  doubt 
ing  what  he  saw  there.  Just  for  a  moment  the  situation  threat 
ened  to  get  out  of  hand.  Then  he  patted  her  shoulders  and 
put  the  safety  of  his  desk  between  them. 

"Run  away  and  bathe  your  eyes,"  he  said,  "and  then  come 
back  here  looking  like  the  best  secretary  in  the  state,  and  not 
like  a  winter  thaw.  We  have  the  deuce  of  a  lot  of  work  to  do." 

But  after  she  had  gone  he  sat  for  some  little  time  idly  rap 
ping  a  pencil  on  the  top  of  his  desk.  By  Jove!  Anna  Klein! 
Of  all  girls  in  the  world  !  It  was  rather  a  pity,  too.  She  was 
a  nice  little  thing,  and  in  the  last  few  months  she  had  changed 
a  lot.  She  had  been  timid  at  first,  and  hideously  dressed. 
Lately  she  had  been  almost  smart.  Those  ear-rings  now  —  • 


4o DANGEROUS  DAYS 

they  changed  her  a  lot.  Queer — how  things  went  on  in  a  girl's 
mind,  and  a  fellow  didn't  know  until  something  happened.  He 
settled  his  tie  and  smoothed  back  his  heavy  hair. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  day  he  began  to  wonder  if  he 
had  not  been  a  fatuous  idiot.  Anna  did  her  work  with  the 
thoroughness  of  her  German  blood  plus  her  American  train 
ing.  She  came  back  minus  her  hat,  and  with  her  eyes  carefully 
powdered,  and  not  once  during  the  morning  was  he  able  to 
meet  her  eyes  fully.  By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  sex 
vanity  and  curiosity  began  to  get  the  better  of  his  judgment, 
and  he  made  an  excuse,  when  she  stood  beside  him  over  some 
papers,  her  hand  on  the  desk,  to  lay  his  fingers  over  hers.  She 
drew  her  hand  away  quickly,  and  when  he  glanced  up,  boyishly 
smiling,  her  face  was  flushed. 

"Please,"  she  said.  And  he  felt  hurt  and  rebuffed.  He 
had  no  sentiment  for  her  whatever,  but  the  devil  of  mischief  of 
twenty-two  was  behind  him,  urging  him  on  to  the  eternal  ex 
periment.  He  was  very  formal  with  her  for  the  rest  of  the 
day,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  leaving  her,  at  four  o'clock, 
white-faced  and  miserable  over  her  machine  in  the  little  office 
next  to  his. 

He  forgot  her  immediately,  in  the  attempt  to  leave  the  mill 
without  encountering  his  father.  Clayton,  he  knew,  would  be 
staying  late,  and  would  be  exacting  similar  tribute  to  the 
emergency  from  the  entire  force.  Also,  he  had  been  going 
about  the  yard  with  contractors  most  of  the  afternoon.  But 
Graham  made  his  escape  safely.  It  was  two  hours  later  when 
his  father,  getting  into  the  limousine,  noticed  the  absence  of 
the  boy's  red  car,  and  asked  the  gateman  how  long  it  had 
been  gone. 

"Since  about  four  o'clock,  Mr.  Spencer." 

Suddenly  Clayton  felt  a  reaction  from  the  activities  of  the 
day.  He  sank  back  in  the  deeply  padded  seat,  and  felt  tired 
and — in  some  odd  fashion — lonely.  He  would  have  liked  to 
talk  to  Graham  on  the  way  up-town,  if  only  to  crystallize  his 
own  thoughts.  He  would  have  liked  to  be  going  home  to  re- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 


view  with  Natalie  the  day's  events,  the  fine  spirit  of  his  men, 
the  small  difficulties.  But  Natalie  hated  the  mention  of  the 
mill. 

He  thought  it  probable,  too,  that  they  were  dining  out.  Yes, 
he  remembered.  They  were  dining  at  the  Chris  Valentines. 
Well,  that  was  better  than  it  might  have  been.  They  were  not 
dull,  anyhow.  His  mind  wandered  to  the  Valentine  house, 
small,  not  too  well-ordered,  frequently  noisy,  but  always  gay 
and  extremely  smart. 

He  thought  of  Audrey,  and  her  curious  friendship  with  Nat 
alie.  Audrey  the  careless,  with  her  dark  lazy  charm,  her  deep 
and  rather  husky  contralto,  her  astonishing  little  French 
songs,  which  she  sang  with  nonchalant  grace,  and  her  crowds 
of  boyish  admirers  whom  she  alternately  petted  and  bullied  — 
surely  she  and  Natalie  had  little  enough  in  common. 

Yet,  in  the  last  year  or  so,  he  had  been  continually  coming 
across  them  together  —  at  the  club  at  luncheon  in  the  women's 
dining  room,  at  his  own  house,  Natalie  always  perfectly  and 
expensively  dressed,  Audrey  in  the  casual  garments  which 
somehow  her  wearing  made  effective.  « 

He  smiled  a  little.  Certain  of  Audrey's  impertinences  came 
to  his  mind.  She  was  an  amusing  young  woman.  He  had  an 
idea  that  she  was  always  in  debt,  and  that  the  fact  concerned 
her  very  little.  He  fancied  that  few  things  concerned  her 
very  deeply,  including  Chris.  But  she  knew  about  food.  Her 
dinners  were  as  casual  as  her  house,  as  to  service,  but  they 
were  worth  eating.  She  claimed  to  pay  for  them  out  of  her 
bridge  winnings,  and,  indeed,  her  invitation  for  to-night  had 
been  frankness  itself. 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  party,  Clay,"  she  had  said.  "I've 
made  two  killings  at  bridge,  and  somebody  has  shipped  Chris 
some  ducks.  If  you'll  send  me  some  cigarets  like  the  last,  I'll 
make  it  Tuesday." 

He  had  sent  the  cigarets,  and  this  was  Tuesday. 

The  pleasant  rolling  of  the  car  soothed  him.  The  street 
flashed  by,  brilliant  with  lights  that  in  far  perspective  seemed 


42  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

to  meet.  The  shop  windows  gleamed  with  color.  From  curb 
to  curb  were  other  cars  like  the  one  in  which  he  rode,  carry 
ing  home  other  men  like  himself  to  whatever  the  evening  held 
in  store.  He  remembered  London  at  this  hour,  already  dark 
and  quiet,  its  few  motors  making  their  cautious  way  in  the 
dusk,  its  throngs  of  clerks,  nearly  all  women  now,  hurrying 
home  to  whatever  dread  the  night  might  hold.  And  it  made 
him  slightly  more  complacent.  These  things  that  he  had 
taken  for  granted  before  had  since  his  return  assumed  the 
quality  of  luxury. 

"Pray  God  we  won't  get  into  it,"  he  said  to  himself. 

He  reviewed  his  unrest  of  the  night  before,  and  smiled  at 
it.  Happiness.  Happiness  came  from  a  sense  of  achievement. 
Integrity  and  power,  that  was  the  combination.  The  respect 
of  one's  fellow  men,  the  day's  work  well  done.  Romance  was 
done,  at  his  age,  but  there  remained  the  adventure  of  success. 
A  few  years  more,  and  he  would  leave  the  mill  to  Graham  and 
play  awhile.  After  that — he  had  always  liked  politics.  They 
needed  business  men  in  politics.  If  men  of  training  and  leisure 
would  only  go  in  for  it  there  would  be  some  chance  of  clean 
ing  up  the  situation.  Yes,  he  might  do  that.  He  was  an  easy 
speaker,  and 

The  car  drew  up  at  the  curb  and  the  chauffeur  got  out. 
Natalie's  car  had  drawn  up  just  ahead,  and  the  footman  was 
already  opening  the  door.  Rodney  Page  got  out,  and  assisted 
^Natalie  to  alight.  Clayton  smiled.  So  she  had  changed  her 
mind. .  He  saw  Rodney  bend  over  her  hand  and  kiss  it  after 
his  usual  ceremonious  manner.  Natalie  seemed  a  trifle  breath 
less  when  she  turned  and  saw  him. 

"You're  early,  aren't  you?"  she  said. 

"I  fancy  it  is  you  who  are  late." 

Then  he  realized  that  the  chauffeur  was  waiting  to  speak  to 
him. 

"Yes,  Jackson?" 

"I'm  sorry,  sir.  I  guess  I'll  be  leaving  at  the  end  of  my 
month.  Mr.  Spencer." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 43 

"Come  into  the  library  and  I'll  talk  to  you.    What's  wrong?" 

"There's  nothing  wrong,  sir.  I  have  been  very  well  suited. 
It's  only — I  used  to  be  in  the  regular  army,  sir,  and  I  guess 
I'm  going  to  be  needed  again." 

"You  mean — we  are  going  to  be  involved?" 

"Yes,  sir.     I  think  we  are." 

"There's  no  answer  to  that,  Jackson,"  he  said.  But  a  sense 
of  irritation  stirred  him  as  he  went  up  the  steps  to  the  house 
door.  Jackson  was  a  good  man.  Jackson  and  Klein,  and  who 
knew  who  would  be  next? 

"Oh,  damn  the  war,"  he  reflected  rather  wearily. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  winter  which  preceded  the  entrance  of  the  United 
States  into  the  war  was  socially  an  extraordinary  one. 
It  was  marked  by  an  almost  feverish  gayety,  as  though,  having 
apparently  determined  to  pursue  a  policy  dictated  purely  by  self 
interest,  the  people  wished  to  forget  their  anomalous  position. 
Like  a  woman  who  covers  her  shame  with  a  smile.  The  vast 
number  of  war  orders  from  abroad  had  brought  prosperity 
into  homes  where  it  had  long  been  absent.  Mills  and  fac 
tories  took  on  new  life.  Labor  was  scarce  and  high. 

It  was  a  period  of  extravagance  rather  than  pleasure.  Peo 
ple  played  that  they  might  not  think.  Washington,  convinced 
that  the  nation  would  ultimately  be  involved,  kept  its  secret 
well  and  continued  to  preach  a  neutrality  it  could  not  enforce. 
War  was  to  most  of  the  nation  a  great  dramatic  spectacle, 
presented  to  them  at  breakfast  and  in  the  afternoon  editions. 
It  furnished  unlimited  conversation  at  dinner  parties,  led  to 
endless  wrangles,  gave  zest  and  point  to  the  peace  that  made 
those  dinner  parties  possible,  furnished  an  excuse  for  re 
trenchment  here  and  there,  and  brought  into  vogue  great 
bazaars  and  balls  for  the  Red  Cross  and  kindred  activities. 

But  although  the  war  was  in  the  nation's  mind,  it  was  not 
yet  in  its  soul. 

Life  went  on  much  as  before.  An  abiding  faith  in  the 
Allies  was  the  foundation  stone  of  its  complacency.  The 
great  six-months  battle  of  the  Somme,  with  its  million  cas 
ualties,  was  resulting  favorably.  On  the  east  the  Russians 
had  made  some  gains.  There  were  wagers  that  the  Germans 
would  be  done  in  the  Spring. 

But  again  Washington  knew  that  the  British  and  French 
losses  at  the  Somme  had  been  frightful;  that  the  amount  of 

44 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 4_5 

lost  territory  regained  was  negligible  as  against  the  territory 
still  held;  that  the  food  problem  in  the  British  Islands  was 
acute;  that  Jie  submarine  sinkings  were  colossal.  Our  peace 
was  at  a  fearful  cost. 

And  on  the  edge  of  this  volcano  America  played. 

When  Graham  Spencer  left  the  mill  that  Tuesday  after 
noon,  it  was  to  visit  Marion  Hayden.  He  v/as  rather  bored 
now  at  the  prospect.  He  would  have  preferred  going  to  the 
Club  to  play  billiards,  which  was  his  custom  of  a  late  after 
noon.  He  drove  rather  more  slowly  than  was  his  custom, 
and  so  missed  Marion's  invitation  to  get  there  before  the 
crowd. 

Three  cars  before  the  house  showed  that  she  already  had 
callers,  and  indeed  when  the  parlor-maid  opened  the  door  a 
burst  of  laughter  greeted  him.  The  Hayden  house  was  a 
general  rendezvous.  There  were  usually,  by  seven  o'clock, 
whiskey-and-soda  glasses  and  tea-cups  on  most  of  the  furni 
ture,  and  half -smoked  cigarets  on  everything  that  would  hold 
them,  including  the  piano. 

Marion  herself  met  him  in  the  hall,  and  led  him  past  the 
drawing-room  door. 

"There  are  people  in  every  room  who  want  to  be  left  alone," 
she  volunteered.  "I  kept  the  library  as  long  as  I  could.  We 
can  sit  on  the  stairs,  if  you  like." 

Which  they  proceeded  to  do,  quite  amiably.  From  various 
open  doors  came  subdued  voices.  The  air  was  pungent  with 
tobacco  smoke  permeated  with  a  faint  scent  of  late  afternoon 
highballs. 

"Tommy!"  Marion  called,  when  she  had  settled  herself. 

"Yes,"  from  a  distance. 

"Did  you  leave  your  cigaret  on  the  piano?" 

"No,  Toots  dear.     But  I  can,  easily." 

"Mother,"  Marion  explained,  "is  getting  awfully  touchy 
about  the  piano.  Well,  do  you  remember  half  the  pretty 
things  you  told  me  last  night?" 

"Not  exactly.     But  I  meant  them." 


46 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

He  looked  up  at  her  admiringly.  He  was  only  a  year  from 
college,  and  he  had  been  rather  arbitrarily  limited  to  the  debu 
tantes.  He  found,  therefore,  something  rather  flattering  in 
the  attention  he  was  receiving  from  a  girl  who  had  been  out 
five  years,  and  who  was  easily  the  most  popular  young  woman 
in  the  gayer  set.  It  gave  him  a  sense  of  maturity.  Since  the 
night  before  he  had  been  rankling  under  a  sense  of  youth. 

"Was  I  pretty  awful  last  night?"  he  asked. 

"You  were  very  interesting.  And — I  imagine — rather  in 
discreet." 

"Fine!    What  did  I  say?" 

"You  boasted,  my  dear  young  friend." 

"Great  Scott!     I  must  have  been  awful." 

"About  the  new  war  contracts." 

"Oh,  business !" 

"But  I  found  it  very  interesting.  You  know,  I  like  busi 
ness.  And  I  like  big  figures.  Poor  people  always  do.  Has 
it  really  gone  through?  I  mean,  those  things  do  slip  up 
sometimes,  don't  they?" 

"It's  gone  through,  all  right.  Signed,  sealed,  and  deliv 
ered." 

Encouraged  by  her  interest,  he  elaborated  on  the  new  work. 
He  even  developed  an  enthusiasm  for  it,  to  his  own  surprise. 
And  the  girl  listened  intently,  leaning  forward  so  that  her 
arm  brushed  his  shoulder.  Her  eyes,  slightly  narrowed, 
watched  him  closely.  She  knew  every  move  of  the  game  she 
was  determining  to  play. 

Marion  Hayden,  at  twenty-five,  knew  already  what  her  little 
world  had  not  yet  realized,  that  such  beauty  as  she  had  had 
was  the  beauty  of  youth  only,  and  that  that  was  going.  Late 
hours,  golf,  perhaps  a  little  more  champagne  than  was  neces 
sary  at  dinners,  and  the  mornings  found  her  almost  plain. 
And,  too,  she  had  the  far  vision  of  the  calculating  mind.  She 
knew  that  if  the  country  entered  the  war,  every  eligible  man 
she  knew  would  immediately  volunteer. 

At  twenty-five  she  already  noticed  a  change  in  the  personnel 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 47 

of  her  followers.  The  unmarried  men  who  had  danced  with 
her  during  her  first  two  winters  were  now  sending  flowers  to 
the  debutantes,  and  cutting  in  on  the  younger  men  at  balls. 
Her  house  was  still  a  rendezvous,  but  it  wras  for  couples  like 
the  ones  who  had  preempted  the  drawing-room,  the  library 
and  the  music  room  that  afternoon.  They  met  there,  smoked 
her  cigarets,  made  love  in  a  corner,  occasionally  became  en 
gaged.  But  she  was  of  the  game,  no  longer  in  it. 

Men  still  came  to  see  her,  a  growing  percentage  of  them 
married.  They  brought  or  sent  her  tribute,  flowers,  candy, 
and  cigarets.  She  was  enormously  popular  at  dances.  But 
more  and  more  her  dinner  invitations  were  from  the  older 
crowd.  Like  Natalie  Spencer's  stupid  party  the  night  before. 

So  she  watched  Graham  and  listened.  He  was  a  nice  boy 
and  a  handsome  one.  Also  he  promised  to  be  sole  heir  to  a 
great  business.  If  the  war  only  lasted  long  enough 

"Imagine  your  knowing  all  those  things,"  she  said  admir 
ingly.  "You're  a  partner,  aren't  you?" 

He  flushed  slightly. 

"Not  yet.     But  of  course  I  shall  be." 

"When  you  really  get  going,  I  wonder  if  you  will  take  me 
round  and  show  me  how  shells  are  made.  I'm  the  most 
ignorant  person  you  ever  knew." 

"I'll  be  awfully  glad  to." 

"Very  well.  For  that  promise  you  shall  have  a  highball. 
You're  an  awful  dear,  you  know." 

She  placed  a  slim  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  patted  it.  Then, 
leaning  rather  heavily  on  him  for  support,  she  got  to  her  feet. 

"We'll  go  in  and  stir  up  some  of  the  lovers,"  she  suggested. 
"And  if  Tommy  Hale  hasn't  burned  up  the  piano  we  can 
dance  a  bit.  You  dance*  divinely,  you  know." 

It  was  after  seven  when  he  reached  home.  He  felt  every 
inch  a  man.  He  held  himself  very  straight  as  he  entered  the 
house,  and  the  boyish  grin  with  which  he  customarily  greeted 
the  butler  had  given  place  to  a  dignified  nod. 


48 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Natalie  was  in  her  dressing-room.  At  his  knock  she  told 
the  maid  to  admit  him,  and  threw  a  dressing-gown  over  her 
bare  shoulders.  Then  she  sent  the  maid  away  and  herself 
cautiously  closed  the  door  into  Clayton's  room. 

"I've  got  the  money  for  you,  darling,"  she  said.  From  her 
jewel  case  she  took  a  roll  of  bills  and  held  them  out  to  him. 
"Five  hundred." 

"I  hate  to  take  it,  mother." 

"Never  mind  about  taking  it.  Pay  those  bills  before  your 
father  learns  about  them.  That's  all." 

He  was  divided  between  gratitude  and  indignation.  His 
new-found  maturity  seemed  to  be  slipping  from  him.  Some 
how  here  at  home  they  always  managed  to  make  him  feel  like 
a  small  boy. 

"Honestly,  mother,  I'd  rather  go  to  father  and  tell  him 
about  it.  He'd  make  a  row,  probably,  but  at  least  you'd  be 
out  of  it." 

She  ignored  his  protest,  as  she  always  ignored  protests 
against  her  own  methods  of  handling  matters. 

"I'm  accustomed  to  it,"  was  her  sole  reply.  But  her  re 
signed  voice  brought  her,  as  it  always  had,  the  ready  tribute 
of  the  boy's  sympathy.  "Sit  down,  Graham,  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

He  sat  down,  still  uneasily  fingering  the  roll  of  bills.  Just 
how  far  Natalie's  methods  threatened  to  undermine  his  char 
acter  was  revealed  when,  at  a  sound  in  Clayton's  room,  he 
stuck  the  money  hastily  into  his  pocket. 

"Have  you  noticed  a  change  in  your  father  since  he  came 
back?" 

Her  tone  was  so  ominous  that  he  started. 

"He's  not  sick,  is  he?" 

"Not  that.  But— he's  different.  Graham,  your  father 
thinks  we  may  be  forced  into  the  war." 

"Good  for  us.    It's  time,  that's  sure." 

"Graham!" 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 49 

"Why,  good  heavens,  mother,"  he  began,  "we  should  have 
been  in  it  last  May.  We  should " 

She  was  holding  out  both  hands  to  him,  piteously. 

"You  wouldn't  go,  would  you?" 

"I  might  nave  to  go,"  he  evaded. 

"You  wouldn't,  Graham.  You're  all  I  have.  All  I  have 
left  to  live  for.  You  wouldn't  need  to  go.  It's  ridiculous. 
You're  needed  here.  Your  father  needs  you." 

"He  needs  me  the  hell  of  a  lot,"  the  boy  muttered.  But 
he  went  over  and,  stooping  down,  kissed  her  trembling  face. 

"Don't  worry  about  me,"  he  said  lightly.  "I  don't  think 
we've  got  spine  enough  to  get  into  the  mix-up,  anyhow.  And 
if  we  have " 

"You  won't  go.     Promise  me  you  won't  go." 

When  he  hesitated  she  resorted  to  her  old  methods  with 
both  Clayton  and  the  boy.  She  was  doing  all  she  could  to 
make  them  happy.  She  made  no  demands,  none.  But  when 
she  asked  for  something  that  meant  more  than  life  to  her,  it 
was  refused,  of  course.  She  had  gone  through  all  sorts  of 
humiliation  to  get  him  that  money,  and  this  was  the  gratitude 
she  received. 

Graham  listened.  She  was  a  really  pathetic  figure,  crouched 
in  her  low  chair,  and  shaken  with  terror.  She  must  have 
rather  a  bad  time;  there  were  so  many  things  she  dared  not 
take  to  his  father.  She  brought  them  to  him  instead,  her 
small  grievances,  her  elaborate  extravagances,  her  disappoint 
ments.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  she  transferred  to  his 
young  shoulders  many  of  her  own  burdens.  He  was  only 
grateful  for  her  confidence,  and  a  trifle  bewildered  by  it. 
And  she  had  helped  him  out  of  a  hole  just  now. 

"All  right.  I  promise,"  he  said  at  last.  "But  you're  worry 
ing  yourself  for  nothing,  mother." 

She  was  quite  content  then,  cheered  at  once,  consulted  the 
jewelled  watch  on  her  dressing  table  and  rang  for  the  maid. 

"Heavens,  how  late  it  is !"  she  exclaimed.     "Run  out  now, 


50  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

dear.  And,  Graham,  tell  Buckham  to  do  up  a  dozen  dinner- 
napkins  in  paper.  Audrey  Valentine  has  telephoned  that  she 
has  just  got  in,  and  finds  she  hasn't  enough.  If  that  isn't  like 
her!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

MONTHS  afterward/Clayton  Spencer,  looking  back,  real 
ized  that  the  night  of  the  dinner  at  the  Chris  Valentines 
marked  the  beginning  of  a  new  epoch  for  him.  Yet  he  never 
quite  understood  what  it  was  that  had  caused  the  change.  All 
that  was  clear  was  that  in  retrospect  he  always  commenced 
with  that  evening,  when  he  was  trying  to  trace  his  own  course 
through  the  months  that  followed,  with  their  various  changes, 
to  the  momentous  ones  of  the  following  Summer. 

Everything  pertaining  to  the  dinner,  save  the  food,  stood 
out  with  odd  distinctness.  Natalie's  silence  during  the  drive, 
broken  only  by  his  few  questions  and  her  brief  replies.  Had 
the  place  looked  well?  Very.  And  was  the  planting  going 
on  all  right?  She  supposed  so.  He  had  hesitated,  rather  dis 
couraged.  Then : 

"I  don't  want  to  spoil  your  pleasure  in  the  place,  Nat 
alie "  he  had  said,  rather  awkwardly.  "After  all,  you  will 

be  there  more  than  I  shall.  You'd  better  have  it  the  way  you 
like  it." 

She  had  appeared  mollified  at  that  and  had  relaxed  some 
what.  He  fancied  that  the  silence  that  followed  was  no  longer 
resentful,  that  she  was  busily  planning.  But  when  they  had 
almost  reached  the  house  she  turned  to  him. 

"Please  don't  talk  war  all  evening,  Clay,"  she  said.  "I'm 
so  ghastly  sick  of  it." 

"All  right,"  he  agreed  amiably.  "Of  course  I  can't  prevent 
the  others  doing  it." 

"It's  generally  you  who  lead  up  to  it.  Ever  since  you  came 
back  you've  bored  everybody  to  death  with  it." 

"Sorry,"  he  said,  rather  stiffly.     "I'll  be  careful." 

He  had  a  wretched  feeling  that  she  was  probably  right.  He 

51 


52 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

had  come  back  so  full  of  new  impressions  that  he  had  prob 
ably  overflowed  with  them.  It  was  a  very  formal,  extremely 
tall  and  reticent  Clayton  Spencer  who  greeted  Audrey  that 
night. 

Afterward  he  remembered  that  Audrey  was  not  quite  her 
usual  frivolous  self  that  evening.  But  perhaps  that  was  only 
in  retrospect,  in  view  of  what  he  learned  later.  She  was  very 
daringly  dressed,  as  usual,  wearing  a  very  low  gown  and  a 
long  chain  and  ear-rings  of  black  opals,  and  as  usual  all  the 
men  in  the  room  were  grouped  around  her. 

"Thank  heaven  for  one  dignified  man,"  she  exclaimed,  look 
ing  up  at  him.  "Clayton,  you  do  give  tone  to  my  parties." 

It  was  not  until  they  went  in  to  dinner  that  he  missed  Chris. 
He  heard  Audrey  giving  his  excuses. 

"He's  been  called  out  of  town,"  she  said.  "Clay,  you're  to 
have  his  place.  And  the  flowers  are  low,  so  I  can  look  across 
and  admire  you." 

There  were  a  dozen  guests,  and  things  moved  rapidly.  Au 
drey's  dinners  were  always  hilarious.  And  Audrey  herself, 
Clayton  perceived  from  his  place  of  vantage,  was  flirting  al 
most  riotously  with  the  man  on  her  left.  She  had  two  high 
spots  of  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  Clayton  fancied — or  was  that 
in  retrospect,  too? — that  her  gayety  was  rather  forced.  Once 
he  caught  her  eyes  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  trying 
to  convey  something  to  him. 

And  then,  of  course,  the  talk  turned  to  the  war,  and  he 
caught  a  flash  of  irritation  on  Natalie's  face. 

"Ask  the  oracle,"  said  Audrey's  clear  voice.  "Ask  Clay. 
He  knows  all  there  is  to  know." 

"I  didn't  hear  it,  but  I  suppose  it  is  when  the  war  will  end  ?" 

"Amazing  perspicacity,"  some  one  said. 

"I  can  only  give  you  my  own  opinion.  Ten  years  if  we 
don't  go  in.  Possibly  four  if  we  do." 

There  were  clamors  of  dissent. 

"None  of  them  can  hold  out  so  long." 

"If  we  go  in  it  will  end  in  six  months." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 53 

"Nonsense !     The  Allies  are  victorious  now." 

"I  only  gave  an  opinion,"  he  protested.  "One  man's  guess 
is  just  as  good  as  another's.  All  I  contend  is  that  it  is  going 
on  to  a  finish.  The  French  and  English  are  not  going  to  stop 
until  they  have  made  the  Hun  pay  in  blood  for  what  he  has 
cost  them." 

"I  wish  I  were  a  man,"  Audrey  said  suddenly.  "I  don't  see 
how  any  man  with  red  blood  in  his  veins  can  sit  still,  and  not 
take  a  gun  and  try  to  stop  it.  Sometimes  I  think  I'll  cut  off 
my  hair,  and  go  over  anyhow.  I've  only  got  one  accomplish 
ment.  I  can  shoot.  I'd  like  to  sit  in  a  tree  somewhere  and 
pick  them  off.  The  butchers !" 

There  was  a  roar  of  laughter,  not  so  much  at  the  words  as 
at  the  fierceness  with  which  she  delivered  them.  Clayton, 
however,  felt  that  she  was  in  earnest  and  liked  her  the  better 
for  it.  He  surmised,  indeed,  that  under  Audrey's  affectations 
there  might  be  something  rather  fine  if  one  could  get  at  it. 
She  looked  around  the  table,  coolly  appraising  every  man 
there. 

"Look  at  us,"  she  said.  "Here  we  sit,  over-fed,  over-dressed. 
Only  not  over-wined  because  I  can't  afford  it.  And  probably — 
yes,  I  think  actually — every  man  at  this  table  is  more  or  less 
making  money  out  of  it  all.  There's  Clay  making  a  fortune. 
There's  Roddie,  making  money  out  of  Clay.  Here  am  I, 
serving  Clayton's  cigarets — I  don't  know  why  I  pick  on  you, 
Clay.  The  rest  are  just  as  bad.  You're  the  most  conspicuous, 
that's  all." 

Natalie  evidently  felt  that  the  situation  required  saving. 

"I'm  sure  we  all  send  money  over,"  she  protested.  "To  the 
Belgians  and  all  that.  And  if  they  want  things  we  have  to 
sell " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  all  that,"  Audrey  broke  in,  rather  wearily. 
"I  know.  We're  the  saviors  of  the  Belgians,  and  we've  given 
a  lot  of  money  and  shiploads  of  clothes.  But  we're  not  stop 
ping  the  war.  And  it's  got  to  be  stopped !" 

Clayton  watched  her.     Somehow  what  she  had  just  said 


54 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

seemed  to  crystallize  much  that  he  had  been  feeling.  The 
damnable  butchery  ought  to  be  stopped. 

"Right,  Audrey,"  he  supported  her.  "I'd  give  up  every 
prospect  I  have  if  the  thing  could  be  ended  now." 

He  meant  it  then.  He  might  not  have  meant  it,  entirely,  to 
morrow  or  the  day  after.  But  he  meant  it  then.  He  glanced 
down  the  table,  to  find  Natalie  looking  at  him  with  cynical 
amusement. 

The  talk  veered  then,  but  still  focused  on  the  war.  It  be 
came  abstract  as  was  so  much  of  the  war  talk  in  America  in 
1916.  Were  we,  after  this  war  was  over,  to  continue  to  use 
the  inventions  of  science  to  destroy  mankind,  or  for  its  wel 
fare?  Would  we  ever  again,  in  wars  to  come,  go  back  to  the 
comparative  humanity  of  the  Hague  convention?  Were  such 
wickednesses  as  the  use  of  poison  gas,  the  spreading  of  disease 
germs  and  the  killing  of  non-combatants,  all  German  prece 
dents,  to  inaugurate  a  new  era  of  cruelty  in  warfare. 

Was  this  the  last  war?  Would  there  ever  be  a  last  war? 
Would  there  not  always  be  outlaw  nations,  as  there  are  out 
law  individuals?  Would  there  ever  be  a  league  of  nations  to 
enforce  peace? 

From  that  to  Christianity.  It  had  failed.  On  the  contrary, 
there  was  a  great  revival  of  religious  faith.  Creeds,  no.  Be 
lief,  yes.  Too  many  men  were  dying  to  permit  the  growth  of 
any  skepticism  as  to  a  future  life.  We  must  have  it  or  go  mad. 

In  the  midst  of  that  discussion  Audrey  rose.  Her  color 
had  faded,  and  her  smile  was  gone. 

"I  won't  listen  any  longer,"  she  said.  "I'm  ready  to  talk 
about  righting,  but  not  about  dying." 

Clayton  was  conscious  that  he  had  had,  in  spite  of  Audrey's 
speech  about  the  wine,  rather  more  to  drink  than  he  should 
have.  He  was  not  at  all  drunk,  but  a  certain  excitement  had 
taken  the  curb  off  his  tongue.  After  the  departure  of  the 
women  he  found  himself,  rather  to  his  own  surprise,  deliver 
ing  a  harangue  on  the  Germans. 

"Liars  and  cheats,"  he  said.     And  was  conscious  of  the 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 


undivided  attention  of  the  men.  "They  lied  when  they  signed 
the  Hague  Convention;  they  lie  when  they  claim  that  they 
wanted  peace,  not  war;  they  lie  when  they  claim  the  mis-use 
by  the  Allies  of  the  Red  Cross  ;  they  lie  to  the  world  and  they 
lie  to  themselves.  And  their  peace  offers  will  be  lies.  Always 
lies." 

Then,  conscious  that  the  table  was  eying  him  curiously,  he 
subsided  into  silence. 

"You're  a  dangerous  person,  Clay,"  somebody  said.  "You're 
the  kind  who  develops  a  sort  of  general  hate,  and  will  force 
the  President's  hand  if  he  can.  You're  too  old  to  go  yourself, 
but  you're  willing  to  send  a  million  or  two  boys  over  there  to 
fight  a  war  that  is  still  none  of  our  business." 

"I've  got  a  son,"  Clayton  said  sharply.  And  suddenly  re 
membered  Natalie.  He  would  want  to  boast,  she  had  said, 
that  he  had  a  son  in  the  army.  Good  God,  was  he  doing  it 
already?  He  subsided  into  the  watchful  silence  of  a  man  not 
entirely  sure  of  himself. 

He  took  no  liquor,  and  with  his  coffee  he  was  entirely  him 
self  again.  But  he  was  having  a  reaction.  He  felt  a  sort  of 
contemptuous  scorn  for  the  talk  at  the  table.  The  guard 
down,  they  were  either  mouthing  flamboyant  patriotism  or 
attacking  the  Government.  It  had  done  too  much.  It  had 
done  too  little.  Voices  raised,  faces  flushed,  they  wrangled, 
protested,  accused. 

And  the  nation,  he  reflected,  was  like  that,  divided  appar 
ently  hopelessly.  Was  there  anything  that  would  unite  it, 
as  for  instance  France  was  united?  Would  even  war  do  it? 
Our  problem  was  much  greater,  more  complicated.  We  were 
of  every  race.  And  the  country  was  founded  and  had  grown 
by  men  who  had  fled  from  the  quarrels  of  Europe,  They  had 
come  to  find  peace.  Was  there  any  humanitarian  principle 
in  the  world  strong  enough  to  force  them  to  relinquish  that 
peace  ? 

Clayton  found  Audrey  in  the  hall  as  they  moved  at  last 
toward  the  drawing-room.  He  was  the  last  of  the  line  of 


56 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

men,  and  as  he  paused  before  her  she  touched  him  lightly  on 
the  arm. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Clay.    Unless  you're  going  to  play." 

"I'd  rather  not,  unless  you  need  me."  . 

"I  don't.    I'm  not  playing  either.    And  I  must  talk  to  some 


one." 


There  was  something  wrong  with  Audrey.  Her  usual  in 
souciance  was  gone,  and  her  hands  nervously  fingered  the  opal 
beads  of  her  long  necklace. 

"What  I  really  want  to  do,"  she  added,  "is  to  scream.  But 
don't  look  like  that.  I  shan't  do  it.  Suppose  we  go  up  to 
Chris's  study." 

She  was  always  a  casual  hostess.  Having  got  her  parties 
together,  and  having  fed  them  well,  she  consistently  declined 
further  responsibility.  She  kept  open  house,  her  side  board 
and  her  servants  at  the  call  of  her  friends,  but  she  was  quite 
capable  of  withdrawing  herself,  without  explanation,  once 
things  were  moving  well,  to  be  found  later  by  some  one  who 
was  leaving,  writing  letters,  fussing  with  her  endless  bills,  or 
sending  a  check  she  could  not  possibly  afford  to  some  one  in 
want  whom  she  happened  to  have  heard  about.  Her  popu 
larity  was  founded  on  something  more  substantial  than  her 
dinners. 

Clayton  was  liking  Audrey  better  that  night  than  he  had 
ever  liked  her,  though  even  now  he  did  not  entirely  approve 
of  her.  And  to  the  call  of  any  woman  in  trouble  he  always 
responded.  It  occurred  to  him,  following  her  up  the  stairs, 
that  not  only  was  something  wrong  with  Audrey,  but  that  it 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  known  her  to  show  weakness. 

Chris's  study  was  dark.  She  groped  her  way  in  and  turned 
on  the  lamp,  and  then  turned  and  faced  him. 

"I'm  in  an  awful  mess,  Clay,"  she  said.  "And  the  worst 
of  it  is,  I  don't  know  just  what  sort  of  a  mess  it  is." 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  me  about  it?" 

"Some  of  it.    And  if  I  don't  start  to  yelling  like  a  tom-cat." 

"You're  not  going  to  do  that.    Let  me  get  you  something." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 57 

He  was  terrified  by  her  eyes.  "Some  aromatic  ammonia." 
That  was  Natalie's  cure  for  everything. 

"I'm  not  going  to  faint.  I  never  do.  Close  the  door  and 
sit  down.  And  then — give  me  a  hundred  dollars,  if  you 
have  it.  Will  you?" 

"Is  that  enough?"  he  asked.  And  drew  out  his  black  silk 
evening  wallet,  with  its  monogram  in  seed  pearls.  He  laid  the 
money  on  her  knee,  for  she  made  no  move  to  take  it.  She 
sat  back,  her  face  colorless,  and  surveyed  him  intently. 

"What  a  comfort  you  are,  Clay,"  she  said.  "Not  a  word 
in  question.  Just  like  that!  Yet  you  know  I  don't  borrow 
money,  usually." 

"The  only  thing  that  is  important  is  that  I  have  the  money 
with  me.  Are  you  sure  it's  enough?" 

"Plenty.  I'll  send  it  back  in  a  week  or  so.  I'm  selling  this 
house.  It's  practically  sold.  I  don't  know  why  anybody 
wants  it.  It's  a  poky  little  place.  But — well,  it  doesn't  matter 
about  the  house.  I  called  up  some  people  to-day  who  have 
been  wanting  one  in  this  neighborhood  and  I'm  practically 
sure  they'll  take  it." 

"But— you  and  Chris " 

"We  have  separated,  Clay.  At  least,  Chris  has  gone. 
There's  a  long  story  behind  it.  I'm  not  up  to  telling  it  to-night. 
And  this  money  will  end  part  of  it.  That's  all  I'm  going  to  tell 
about  the  money.  It's  a  small  sum,  isn't  it,  to  break  up  a 
family!" 

"Why,  it's  absurd !    It's— it's  horrible,  Audrey." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  the  money.  That's  a  trifle.  I  just  had  to  have 
it  quickly.  And  when  I  learned  I  needed  it  of  course  the  banks 
were  closed.  Besides,  I  fancy  Chris  had  to  have  all  there 
was." 

Clayton  was  puzzled  and  distressed.  He  had  not  liked  Chris. 
He  had  hated  his  cynicism,  his  pose  of  indifference.  His  very 
fastidiousness  had  never  seemed  entirely  genuine.  And  this 
going  away  and  taking  all  Audrey's  small  reserve  of  money 

"Where  is  he?" 


58 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"I  don't  know.    I  believe  on  his  way  to  Canada." 

"Do  you  mean " 

"Oh,  no,  he  didn't  steal  anything.  He's  going  to  enlist  in 
the  Canadian  army.  Or  he  said  so  when  he  left." 

"Look  here,  Audrey,  you  can't  tell  me  only  part  of  the  story. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Chris  has  had  a  magnificent  impulse 
and  gone  to  fight?  Or  that  he's  running  away  from  some 
thing?" 

"Both,"  said  Audrey.  "I'll  tell  you  this  much,  Clay.  Chris 
has  got  himself  into  a  scrape.  I  won't  tell  you  about  that,  be 
cause  after  all  that's  his  story.  And  I'm  not  asking  for  sym 
pathy.  If  you  dare  to  pity  me  I'll  cry,  and  I'll  never  forgive 
you." 

"Why  didn't  he  stay  and  face  it  like  a  man  ?  Not  leave  you 
to  face  it." 

"Because  the  only  person  it  greatly  concerned  was  myself. 
He  didn't  want  to  face  me.  The  thing  that  is  driving  me  almost 
mad  is  that  he  may  be  killed  over  there.  Not  because  I  love 
him  so  much.  I  think  you  know  how  things  have  been.  But 
because  he  went  to — well,  I  think  to  reinstate  himself  in  my 
esteem,  to  show  me  he's  a  man,  after  all." 

"Good  heavens,  Audrey.  And  you  went  through  dinner  with 
all  this  to  bear !" 

"I've  got  to  carry  it  right  along,  haven't  I?  You  know 
how  I've  been  about  this  war,  Clay.  I've  talked  and  talked 
about  wondering  how  our  men  could  stay  out  of  it.  So  when 
the  smash  came,  he  just  said  he  was  going.  He  would  show 
me  there  was  some  good  stuff  in  him  still.  You  see,  I've 
really  driven  him  to  it,  and  if  he's  killed " 

A  surge  of  resentment  against  the  absent  man  rose  in  Clay 
ton  Spencer's  mind.  How  like  the  cynicism  of  Chris's  whole 
attitude  that  he  should  thrust  the  responsibility  for  his  going 
onto  Audrey.  He  had  made  her  unhappy  while  he  was  with 
her,  and  now  his  death,  if  it  occurred,  would  be  a  horror  to 
her. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  burden  you  with  all  this,"  she  said, 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  59 

rather  impatiently.  "I  daresay  it  is  because  I  knew  you'd 
have  the  money.  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  I'd  rather  go  to  you 
in  trouble  than  to  any  one  else;  that's  why." 

"I  hope  you  always  will." 

"Oh,  I  shall !  Don't  worry."  But  her  attempt  at  gayety  fell 
flat.  She  lighted  a  cigaret  from  the  stand  beside  her  and  fell 
to  studying  his  face. 

"What's  happened  to  you?"  she  asked.  "There's  a  change 
in  you,  somehow.  I've  noticed  it  ever  since  you  came  home. 
You  ought  to  be  smug  and  contented,  if  any  man  should.  But 
you're  not,  are  you?" 

"I'm  working  hard.  That's  all.  I  don't  want  to  talk  about 
myself,"  he  added  impatiently.  "What  about  you  ?  What  are 
you  going  to  do?" 

"Sell  my  house,  pay  my  debts  and  live  on  my  own  little  bit 
£f  an  income." 

"But,  good  heavens,  Audrey !  Chris  has  no  right  to  cut  off 
like  this,  and  leave  you.  I  don't  know  the  story,  but  at  least 
he  must  support  you.  A  man  can't  just  run  away  and  evade 
every  obligation.  I  think  I'll  have  to  go  after  him  and  give 
him  a  talking  to." 

"No !"  she  said,  bending  forward.  "Don't  do  that.  He  has 
had  a  bad  scare.  But  he's  had  one  decent  impulse,  too.  Let 
him  alone,  Clay." 

She  placed  the  money  on  the  stand,  and  rose.  As  she  faced 
him,  she  impulsively  placed  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"I  wish  I  could  tell  you,  Clay,"  she  said,  in  her  low,  slightly 
husky  voice,  "how  very,  very  much  I  admire  you.  You're 
pretty  much  of  a  man,  you  know.  And — there  aren't  such  a 
lot  of  them." 

For  an  uneasy  moment  he  thought  she  was  going  to  kiss 
him.  But  she  let  her  hands  fall,  and  smiling  faintly,  led  the 
way  downstairs.  Once  down,  however,  she  voiced  the  under 
lying  thought  in  her  mind. 

"If  he  comes  out,  Clay,  he'll  never  forgive  me,  probably. 


60 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

And  if  he  is — if  he  doesn't,  I'll  never  forgive  myself.  So  I'm 
damned  either  way." 

But  ten  minutes  later,  with  a  man  on  either  side  of  her,  she 
was  sitting  at  the  piano  with  a  cigaret  tucked  behind  her  ear, 
looking  distractingly  pretty  and  very  gay  and  singing  a  slightly 
indecorous  but  very  witty  little  French  song. 

Clayton  Spencer,  cutting  in  on  the  second  rubber,  wondered 
which  of  the  many  he  knew  was  the  real  Audrey.  He  won 
dered  if  Chris  had  not  married,  for  instance,  the  girl  at  the 
piano,  only  to  find  she  was  the  woman  upstairs.  And  he  won 
dered,  too,  if  that  were  true,  why  he  should  have  had  to  clear 
out.  So  many  men  married  the  sort  Audrey  had  been,  in 
Chris's  little  study,  only  to  find  that  after  all  the  thing  they 
had  thought  they  were  getting  was  a  pose,  and  it  was  the  girl 
at  the  piano  after  all. 

He  missed  her,  somewhat  later.  She  was  gone  a  full  half 
hour,  and  he  fancied  her  absence  had  something  to  do  with 
the  money  she  had  borrowed. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TWO  things  helped  greatly  to  restore  Clayton  to  a  more 
normal  state  of  mind  during  the  next  few  days.  One 
of  them  undoubtedly  was  the  Valentine  situation.  Beside 
Audrey's  predicament  and  Chris's  wretched  endeavor  to  get 
away  and  yet  prove  himself  a  man,  his  own  position  seemed, 
if  not  comfortable,  at  least  tenable.  He  would  have  described 
it,  had  he  been  a  man  to  put  such  a  thing  into  words,  as  that 
"he  and  Natalie  didn't  exactly  hit  it  off." 

There  were  times,  too,  during  those  next  few  days,  when 
he  wondered  if  he  had  not  exaggerated  their  incompatibility. 
Natalie  was  unusually  pleasant.  She  spent  some  evening 
hours  on  the  arm  of  his  big  chair,  talking  endlessly  about  the 
Linndale  house,  and  he  would  lean  back,  smiling,  and  pretend 
to  a  mad  interest  in  black  and  white  tiles  and  loggias. 

He  made  no  further  protest  as  to  the  expense. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  once,  "what  does  a  fellow  wear  in  this — 
er — Italian  palace?  If  you  have  any  intention  of  draping 
me  in  a  toga  and  putting  vine  leaves  in  my  hair,  or  whatever 
those  wreaths  were  made  of !" 

Natalie  had  no  sense  of  humor,  however.  She  saw  that  he 
meant  to  be  amusing,*  and  she  gave  the  little  fleeting  smile  one 
gives  to  a  child  who  is  being  rather  silly. 

"Of  course,"  he  went  on,  "we'll  have  Roman  baths,  and  be 
anointed  with  oil  afterwards  by  lady  Greek  slaves.  Perfumed 
oil." 

"Don't  be  vulgar,  Clay."  And  he  saw  she  was  really  of 
fended. 

While  there  was  actually  no  change  in  their  relationship, 
which  remained  as  it  had  been  for  a  dozen  years,  their  surface 
life  was  pleasanter.  And  even  that  small  improvement  cheered 

61 


62  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

him  greatly.  He  was  thankful  for  such  a  peace,  even  when  he 
knew  that  he  had  bought  it  at  a  heavy  price. 

The  other  was  his  work.  The  directorate  for  the  new 
munition  plant  had  been  selected,  and  on  Thursday  of  that 
week  he  gave  a  dinner  at  his  club  to  the  directors.  It  had 
been  gratifying  to  him  to  find  how  easily  his  past  reputation 
carried  the  matter  of  the  vast  credits  needed,  how  absolutely 
his  new  board  deferred  to  his  judgment.  The  dinner  became, 
in  a  way,  an  ovation.  He  was  vastly  pleased  and  a  little 
humbled.  He  wanted  terribly  to  make  good,  to  justify  their 
faith  in  him.  They  were  the  big  financial  men  of  his  time, 
and  they  were  agreeing  to  back  his  judgment  to  the  fullest 
extent. 

When  the  dinner  was  over,  a  few  of  the  younger  men  were 
in  no  mood  to  go  home.  They  had  dined  and  wined,  and  the 
night  was  young.  Denis  Nolan,  who  had  been  present  as 
the  attorney  for  the  new  concern,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
listened  to  them  with  a  sort  of  tolerant 'cynicism. 

"Oh,  go  home,  you  fellows,"  he  said  at  last.  "You  make  me 
sick.  Enough's  enough.  Why  the  devil  does  every  dinner  like 
this  have  to  end  in  a  debauch?" 

In  the  end,  however,  both  he  and  Clayton  went  along,  Clay 
ton  at  least  frankly  anxious  to  keep  an  eye  on  one  or  two  of 
them  until  they  started  home.  He  had  the  usual  standards, 
of  course,  except  for  himself.  A  man's  private  life,  so  long  as 
he  was  not  a  bounder,  concerned  him  not  at  all  But  this  had 
been  his  dinner.  He  meant  to  see  it  through.  Once  or  twice 
he  had  seen  real  tragedy  come  to  men  as  a  result  of  the  reck 
lessness  of  long  dinners,  many  toasts  and  the  instinct  to  go  on 
and  make  a  night  of  it. 

Afterward  they  went  to  a  midnight  roof -garden,  and  at 
first  it  was  rather  dreary.  Their  youth  was  only  comparative 
after  all,  and  the  eyes  of  the  girls  who  danced  and  sang  passed 
over  them,  to  rest  on  boys  in  their  twenties. 

Nolan  chuckled. 

"Pathetic!"   he   said.     "The   saddest  sight   in   the   world! 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  63 

Every  one  of  you  here  would  at  this  moment  give  up  every 
thing  he's  got  to  be  under  thirty." 

"Oh,  shut  up !"  some  one  said,  almost  savagely. 

"Of  course,  there  are  compensations,"  he  drawled.  "At 
twenty  you  want  to  take  the  entire  bunch  home  and  keep 
'em.  At  thirty  you  know  you  can't,  but  you  still  want  to.  At 
forty  and  over  you  don't  want  them  at  all,  but  you  think  it's 
damned  curious  they  don't  want  you." 

Clayton  had  watched  the  scene  with  a  rather  weary  in 
terest.  He  was,  indeed,  trying  to  put  himself  in  Graham's 
place,  at  Grahim's  a,ce.  He  remembered  once,  at  twenty,  hav 
ing  slipped  off  to  see  "The  Black  Crook,"  then  the  epitome 
of  wickedness,  and  the  disillusionment  of  seeing  women  in 
tights  with  their  accentuated  curves  and  hideous  lack  of  ap 
peal  to  the  imagination.  The  caterers  of  such  wares  had 
learned  since  then.  Here  were  soft  draperies  instead,  laces 
and  chiffons.  The  suggestion  was  not  to  the  eyes  but  to  the 
mind.  How  devilishly  clever  it  all  was. 

Perhaps  there  were  some  things  he  ought  to  discuss  with 
Graham.  He  wondered  how  a  man  led  up  to  such  a  thing. 

Nolan  bent  toward  him. 

"I've  been  watching  for  a  girl,"  he  said,  "but  I  don't  see 
her.  Last  time  I  was  here  I  came  with  Chris.  She  was  his 
girl." 

"Chris !" 

"Yes.  It  stumped  me,  at  first.  She  came  and  sat  with  us, 
not  a  bad  little  thing,  but — Good  Lord,  Clay,  ignorant  and 
not  even  pretty !  And  Chris  was  fastidious,  in  a  way.  I  don't 
understand  it." 

The  ancient  perplexity  of  a  man  over  the  sex  selections 
of  his  friends  puckered  his  forehead. 

"Damned  if  I  understand  it,"  he  repeated. 

A  great  wave  of  pity  for  Audrey  Valentine  surged  in 
Clayton  Spencer's  heart.  She  had  known  it,  of  course;  that 
was  why  Chris  had  gone  away.  How  long  *iad  she  known 
it?  She  was  protecting  Chris's  name,  even  now.  For  all 


64 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

her  frivolity,  there  was  something  rather  big  in  Audrey.  The 
way  she  had  held  up  at  her  dinner,  for  instance — and  he 
rather  fancied  that  the  idea  of  his  going  into  the  army  had 
come  from  her,  directly  or  indirectly.  So  Chris,  from  being 
a  fugitive,  was  already  by  way  of  being  a  hero  to  his  friends. 

Poor  Audrey! 

He  made  a  mental  note  to  send  her  some  flowers  in  the 
morning. 

He  ordered  them  on  his  way  down-town,  and  for  some 
curious  reason  she  was  in  his  mind  most  of  the  day.  Chris 
had  been  a  fool  to  throw  away  a  thirg  so  worth  having. 
Not  every  man  had  behind  him  a  woman  of  Audrey's  sort. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THAT  afternoon,  accompanied  by  a  rather  boyishly  ex 
cited  elderly  clergyman,  he  took  two  hours  off  from  the 
mill  and  purchased  a  new  car  for  Doctor  Haverford. 

The  rector  was  divided  between  pleasure  at  the  gift  and 
apprehension  at  its  cost,  but  Clayton,  having  determined  to 
do  a  thing,  always  did  it  well. 

"Nonsense,"  he  said.  "My  dear  man,  the  church  has  owed 
you  this  car  for  at  least  ten  years.  If  you  get  half  the 
pleasure  out  of  using  it  that  I'm  having  in  presenting  it  to 
you,  it  will  be  well  worth  while.  I  only  wish  you'd  let  me 
endow  the  thing.  It's  likely  to  cost  you  a  small  fortune." 

Doctor  Haverford  insisted  that  he  could  manage  that.  He 
stood  off,  surveying  with  pride  not  unmixed  with  fear  its 
bright  enamel,  its  leather  linings,  the  complicated  system  of 
dials  and  bright  levers  which  rilled  him  with  apprehension. 

"Delight  says  I  must  not  drive  it,"  he  said.  "She  is  sure 
I  would  go  too  fast,  and  run  into  things.  She  is  going  to 
drive  for  me." 

"How  is  Delight?" 

"I  wish  you  could  see  her,  Clayton.  She — well,  all  young 
girls  are  lovely,  but  sometimes  I  think  Delight  is  lovelier 
than  most.  She  is  much  older  than  I  am,  in  many  ways. 
She  looks  after  me  like  a  mother.  But  she  has  humor,  too. 
She  has  been  drawing  the  most  outrageous  pictures  of  me 
arrested  for  speeding,  and  she  has  warned  me  most  gravely 
against  visiting  road  houses!" 

"But  Delight  will  have  to  be  taught,  if  she  is  to  run  the 
car." 

"The  salesman  says  they  will  send  some  one." 

"They  give  one  lesson,  I  believe.  That's  not  enough.  I 

65 


66 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

think  Graham  could  show  her  some  things.    He  drives  well." 

Flying  uptown  a  little  later  in  Clayton's  handsome  car,  the 
rector  dreamed  certain  dreams.  First  his  mind  went  to  his 
parish  visiting  list,  so  endless,  so  never  cleaned  up,  and  now 
about  to  be  made  a  pleasure  instead  of  a  penance.  And  into 
his  mind,  so  strangely  compounded  of  worldliness  and  spirit 
uality,  came  a  further  dream — of  Delight  and  Graham  Spen 
cer — of  ease  at  last  for  the  girl  after  the  struggle  to  keep  up 
appearances  of  a  clergyman's  family  in  a  wealthy  parish. 

Money  had  gradually  assumed  an  undue  importance  in  his 
mind.  Every  Sunday,  every  service,  he  dealt  in  money.  He 
reminded  his  people  of  the  church  debt.  He  begged  for  vari 
ous  charities.  He  tried  hard  to  believe  that  the  money  that 
came  in  was  given  to  the  Lord,  but  he  knew  perfectly  well  that 
it  went  to  the  janitor  and  the  plumber  and  the  organist.  He 
watched  the  offertory  after  the  sermon,  and  only  too  often 
as  he  stood  waiting,  before  raising  it  before  the  altar,  he 
wondered  if  the  people  felt  that  they  had  received  their 
money's  worth. 

He  had  started  life  with  a  dream  of  service,  but  although 
his  own  sturdy  faith  persisted,  he  had  learned  the  cost  of 
religion  in  dollars  and  cents.  So,  going  up  town,  he  won 
dered  if  Clayton  would  increase  his  church  subscription,  now 
that  things  were  well  with  him. 

"After  all,"  he  reflected,  "war  is  not  an  unmixed  evil,"  and 
outlined  a  sermon,  to  be  called  the  Gains  of  War,  and  sub 
sequently  reprinted  in  pamphlet  form  and  sold  for  the  bene 
fit  of  the  new  altar  fund.  He  instructed  Jackson  to  drive 
to  the  parish  house  instead  of  to  the  rectory,  so  that  he  might 
jot  down  the  headings  while  they  were  in  his  mind.  They 
ran  like  this:  Spiritual  growth;  the  nobility  of  sacrifice; 
the  pursuit  of  an  ideal;  the  doctrine  of  thy  brother's  keeper. 

He  stopped  to  speak  to  Jackson  from  the  pavement. 

"I  daresay  we  shall  be  in  frequent  difficulties  with  that 
new  car  of  ours,  Jackson,"  he  said  genially.  "I  may  have  to 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 67 

ask  you  to  come  round  and  explain  some  of  its  mysterious 
interior  to  me." 

Jackson  touched  his  cap. 

"Thank  you,  sir,  I'll  be  glad  to  come.  But  I  am  leaving  Mr. 
Spencer  soon." 

"Leaving!" 

"Going  back  to  the  army,  sir." 

In  the  back  of  his  mind  the  rector  had  been  depending  on 
Jackson,  and  he  felt  vaguely  irritated. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  it.    I'd  been  counting  on  you." 

"Very  sorry,  sir.    I'm  not  leaving  immediately." 

"I  sometimes  think,"  observed  the  rector,  still  ruffled,  "that 
a  man's  duty  is  not  always  what  it  appears  on  the  surface.  To 
keep  Mr.  Spencer — er — comfortable,  while  he  is  doing  his 
magnificent  work  for  the  Allies,  may  be  less  spectacular,  but 
it  is  most  important." 

Jackson  smiled,  a  restrained  and  slightly  cynical  smile. 

"That's  a  matter  for  a  man's  conscience,  isn't  it,  sir?"  he 
asked.  And  touching  his  cap  again,  moved  off.  Doctor 
Haverford  felt  reproved.  Worse  than  that,  he  felt  justly 
reproved.  He  did  not  touch  the  Gains  of  War  that  after 
noon. 

In  the  gymnasium  he  found  Delight,  captaining  a  basket 
ball  team.  In  her  knickers  and  middy  blouse  she  looked  like 
a  little  girl,  and  he  stood  watching  her  as,  flushed  and  excited, 
she  ran  round  the  long  room.  At  last  she  came  over  and 
dropped  onto  the  steps  at  his  feet. 

"Well?"  she  inquired,  looking  up.    "Did  you  get  it?" 

"I  did,  indeed.    A  beauty,  Delight." 

"A  flivver?" 

"Not  at  all.  A  very  handsome  car."  He  told  her  the  make, 
and  she  flushed  again  with  pleasure. 

"Joy  and  rapture!"  she  said.  "Did  you  warn  him  I  am 
to  drive  it?" 

"I  did.    He  suggests  that  Graham  give  you  some  lessons." 

"Graham!" 


68 DANGEROUS  DAYS   

"Why  not?" 

"He'll  be  bored  to  insanity.  That's  all.  You — you  didn't 
suggest  it,  did  you,  daddy?" 

With  all  her  adoration  of  her  father,  Delight  had  long 
recognized  under  his  real  spirituality  a  certain  quality  of 
worldly  calculation.  That,  where  it  concerned  her,  it  was 
prompted  only  by  love  did  not  make  her  acceptance  of  it 
easier. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  the  rector,  stiffly. 

"Graham's  changed,  you  know.  He  used  to  be  a  nice  little 
kid.  But  he's — I  don't  know  what  it  is.  Spoiled,  I  suppose." 

"He'll  steady  down,  Delight." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  clear,  slightly  humorous  eyes. 

"Don't  get  any  queer  ideas  about  Graham  Spencer  and  me, 
Daddy,"  she  said.  "In  the  first  place,  I  intend  to  choose  my 
own  husband.  He's  to  look  as  much  as  possible  like  you, 
but  a  trifle  less  nose.  And  in  the  second  place,  after  I've 
backed  the  car  into  a  telegraph  pole,  and  turned  it  over  in 
a  ditch,  Graham  Spencer  is  just  naturally  going  to  know  I 
am  no  woman  to  tie  to." 

She  got  up  and  smiled  at  him. 

"Anyhow,  I  wouldn't  trust  him  with  the  communion  serv 
ice,"  she  added,  and  walking  out  onto  the  floor,  blew  shrilly 
on  her  whistle.  The  rector  watched  her  with  growing  in 
dignation.  These  snap  judgments  of  youth !  The  easy  damn 
ing  of  the  young!  They  left  no  room  for  argument.  They 
condemned  and  walked  away,  leaving  careful  plans  in  ruin 
behind  them. 

And  Delight,  having  gone  so  far,  went  further.  She  an 
nounced  that  evening  at  dinner  that  she  would  under  no 
circumstances  be  instructed  by  Graham  Spencer.  Her  mother 
ventured  good-humored  remonstrance. 

"The  way  to  learn  to  drive  a  car,"  said  Delight,  "is  to  get 
into  it  and  press  a  few  things,  and  when  it  starts,  keep  on 
going.  You've  got  to  work  it  out  for  yourself." 

And  when  Clayton,  calling  up  with  his  usual  thoughtful- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 69 

ness  that  evening,  offered  Graham  as  instructor,  she  refused 
gratefully  but  firmly. 

"You're  a  dear  to  think  of  it,"  she  said,  "and  you're  a  dear 
to  have  given  Daddy  the  car.  But  I'm  just  naturally  going 
to  fight  it  out  in  my  own  way  if  it  takes  all  winter." 

Natalie,  gathering  her  refusal  from  Clayton's  protest,  had 
heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  Not  that  she  objected  to  Delight 
Haverford.  She  liked  her  as  much  as  she  liked  and  under 
stood  any  young  girl,  which  was  very  little.  But  she  did 
not  want  Graham  to  marry.  To  marry  would  be  to  lose  him, 
And  again,  watching  Clayton's  handsome  head  above  his 
newspaper,  she  reflected  that  Graham  was  all  she  had. 

Nevertheless,  Delight  received  a  lesson  in  driving  from 
Graham,  and  that  within  two  days. 

On  Saturday  afternoon,  finding  the  mill  getting  on  his 
nerves,  Clayton  suggested  to  Graham  what  might  be  the  last 
golf  of  the  autumn  and  Graham  consented  cheerfully  enough. 
For  one  thing,  the  offices  closed  at  noon,  and  Anna  Klein 
had  gone.  He  was  playing  a  little  game  with  Anna — a  light- 
hearted  matter  of  a  glance  now  and  then  caught  and  held,  a 
touched  hand,  very  casually  done,  and  an  admiring  comtnent 
now  and  then  on  her  work.  And  Anna  was  blossoming  like 
a  flower.  She  sat  up  late  to  make  fresh  white  blouses  for 
the  office,  and  rose  early  to  have  abundance  of  time  to  dress. 
She  had  taken  to  using  a  touch  of  rouge,  too,  although  she 
put  it  on  after  she  reached  the  mill,  and  took  it  off  before  she 
started  for  home. 

Her  father,  sullen  and  irritable  these  days,  would  have 
probably  beaten  her  for  using  it. 

But  Anna  had  gone,  and  a  telephone  call  to  Marion  Hayden 
had  told  him  she  was  not  at  home.  He  thought  it  possible 
she  had  gone  to  the  country  club,  and  accepted  his  father's 
suggestion  of  golf  willingly. 

From  the  moment  he  left  the  mill  Anna  had  left  his  mind. 
He  was  at  that  period  when  always  in  the  back  of  his  mind 
there  was  a  girl.  During  the  mill  hours  the  girl  was  Anna, 


TO DANGEROUS  DAYS 

because  she  was  there.  la  the  afternoon  it  was  Marion,  just 
then,  but  even  at  that  there  were  entire  evenings  when,  at 
the  theater,  a  pretty  girl  in  the  chorus  held  and  absorbed  his 
entire  attention — or  at  a  dance  a  debutante,  cloudy  and  mys 
terious  in  white  chiffon,  bounded  his  universe  for  a  few  hours. 

On  this  foundation  of  girl  he  built  the  superstructure  of 
his  days.  Not  evil,  but  wholly  irresponsible.  The  urge  of 
vital  youth  had  caught  him  and  held  him.  And  Clayton,  sit 
ting  that  day  beside  him  in  the  car,  while  Graham  drove  and 
the  golf  clubs  rattled  in  their  bags  at  his  feet,  remembered 
again  the  impulses  of  his  own  adolescence,  and  wondered. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  he  would  have  gone  to  the  boy 
frankly,  with  the  anxieties  he  was  beginning  to  feel.  There 
were  so  many  things  he  wanted  to  tell  the  boy.  So  many 
warnings  he  should  have. 

But  Natalie  had  stolen  him.  That  was  what  it  amounted  to. 
She  had  stolen  his  confidence,  as  only  a  selfish  woman  could. 
And  against  that  cabal  of  mother  and  son  he  felt  helpless.  It 
was  even  more  than  that.  As  against  Natalie's  indulgence  he 
did  not  wish  to  pose  as  a  mentor  pointing  out  always  the  way 
of  duty. 

"How  old  are  you,  Graham?"  he  said  suddenly. 

"Twenty-two."  Graham  glanced  at  him  curiously.  His 
father  knew  his  age,  of  course. 

"I  was  married  at  your  age." 

"Tough  luck,"  said  Graham.  And  then :  "I'm  sorry,  father, 
I  didn't  mean  that.  But  it's  pretty  early,  isn't  it?  No  time 
for  a  good  time,  or  anything." 

"I  fancy  Nature  meant  men  to  marry  young,  don't  you  ?  It 
saves  a  lot  of — complications." 

"The  girl  a  fellow  marries  at  that  age  isn't  often  the  one 
he'd  marry  at  thirty,"  said  Graham.  And  feeling  that  he 
had  said  the  wrong  thing,  changed  the  subject  quickly.  Clay 
ton  did  not  try  to  turn  it  back  into  its  former  channel.  The 
boy  was  uncomfortable,  unresponsive.  There  was  a  barrier 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 71 

between  them,  of  self-consciousness  on  his  part,  of  evasion 
and  discomfort  on  Graham's. 

On  the  way  over  they  had  sighted  Delight  in  the  new  car. 
She  had  tried  to  turn,  had  backed  into  a  ditch  and  was  at 
that  moment  ruefully  surveying  a  machine  which  had  appar 
ently  sat  down  on  its  rear  wheels  with  its  engine  pointed 
pathetically  skyward. 

Delight's  face  fell  when  she  recognized  them. 

"Of  course  it  would  have  to  be  you,"  she  said.  "Of  all 
the  people  who  might  have  seen  my  shame — I'm  going  on  with 
you.  I  never  want  to  see  1  ae  old  thing  again." 

"Anything  smashed?"  Graham  inquired. 

"It  looks  smashed.    I  can't  tell." 

It  was  not  until  the  car  was  out  of  the  ditch,  and  Clayton 
had  driven  off  in  Graham's  car  toward  the  club  that  Delight 
remembered  her  father's  voice  the  day  he  had  told  her  Gra 
ham  would  teach  her  to  drive.  She  stiffened  and  he  was 
quick  to  see  the  change  in  her  manner.  The  total  damage 
was  one  flat  tire,  and  while  the  engine  was  inflating  it,  he 
looked  at  her.  She  had  grown  to  be  quite  pretty.  His  eyes 
approved  her. 

"Better  let  me  come  round  and  give  you  a  few  lessons, 
Delight." 

"I'd  rather  learn  by  myself,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"You'll  have  a  real  smash  unless  you  learn  properly/' 

But  she  remained  rather  obstinately  silent. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me,  Delight?  You're  not  exactly 
crazy  about  me,  are  you?" 

"That's  silly.    I  don't  know  anything  about  you  any  more." 

"That's  your  fault.  You  know  I've  been  away  for  four 
years,  and  since  I  came  back  I  haven't  seen  much  of  you.  But, 
if  you'll  let  me  come  round " 

"You  can  come  if  you  like.    You'll  be  bored,  probably." 

"You're  being  aw  fully  nasty,  you  know.  Here  I  come  to 
pull  you  out  of  a  ditch  and  generally  rescue  you,  and — Come, 


72 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

now,  Delight,  what  is  it?  There's  something.  We  used  to 
be  pals." 

"I  don't  know,  Graham,"  she  said  truthfully.  "I  only  know 
— well,  I  hear  things,  of  course.  Nothing  very  bad.  Just  little 
things.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  insist.  It's  idiotic.  What  does 
it  matter  what  I  think?" 

Graham  flushed.  He  knew  well  enough  one  thing  she  had 
heard.  Her  father  and  mother  had  been  at  dinner  the  other 
night,  and  he  had  had  too  much  to  drink. 

"Sorry." 

He  stopped  the  pump  and  put  a  vay  the  tools,  all  in  silence. 
Good  heavens,  was  all  the  worlc.  divided  into  two  sorts  of 
people:  the  knockers — and  under  that  heading  he  placed  his 
father,  Delight,  and  all  those  who  occasionally  disapproved 
of  him — and  the  decent  sort  who  liked  a  fellow  and  under 
stood  him? 

But  his  training  had  been  too  good  to  permit  him  to  show 
his  angry  scorn.  He  made  an  effort  and  summoned  a  smile. 

"All  ready,"  he  said.  "And  since  you  won't  let  me  teach 
you,  perhaps  I'd  better  take  you  home,." 

"You  were  going  to  the  club." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.     Father's  probably  found  some  one." 

But  she  insisted  that  he  drive  them  both  to  the  club,  and 
turn  the  car  round  there.  Then,  with  a  grinding  of  gear 
levers  that  made  him  groan,  she  was  oif  toward  home,  leav 
ing  Graham  staring  after  her. 

"Well,  can  you  beat  it?"  he  inquired  of  the  empty  air. 
"Can  you  beat  it  ?" 

And  wounded  in  all  the  pride  of  new  manhood,  he  joined 
Marion  and  her  rather  riotous  crowd  around  the  fire  inside 
the  clubhouse.  Clayton  had  given  him  up  and  was  going 
around  alone,  followed  by  a  small  caddie.  The  links  were 
empty,  and  the  caddie  lonely.  He  ventured  small  bits  of 
conversation  now  and  then,  looking  up  with  admiration  at 
Clayton's  tall  figure.  And,  after  a  little,  Clayton  took  the 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 73 

bag  from  him  and  used  him  only  for  retrieving  balls.  The 
boy  played  round,  whistling. 

"Kinda  quiet  to-day,  ain't  it?"  he  offered,  trudging  a  foot 
or  two  behind. 

"It  is,  rather,  young  man." 

"Mostly  on  Saturdays  I  caddie  for  Mr.  Valentine.  But 
he's  gone  to  the  war." 

"Oh,  he  has,  has  he?"  Clayton  built  a  small  tee,  and  placed 
his  ball  on  it.  "Well,  maybe  we'll  all  be  going  some  day." 

He  drove  off  and  started  after  the  ball.  It  was  not  until 
he  was  on  the  green  that  he  was  conscious  of  the  boy  beside 
him  again. 

"How  old  d'you  have  to  be  to  get  into  the  army,  Mr.  Spen 
cer?"  inquired  the  caddie,  anxiously. 

Clayton  looked  at  him  quizzically. 

"Want  to  try  for  it,  do  you?  Well,  I'm  afraid  you'll  have 
to  wait  a  bit." 

"I'm  older  than  I  look,  Mr.  Spencer." 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Sixteen." 

"Afraid  you'll  have  to  wait  a  while,"  said  Clayton,  an< 
achieved  a  well-nigh  perfect  long  putt. 

"I'd  just  like  to  get  a  whack  at  them  Germans,"  offered 
the  boy,  and  getting  no  response,  trudged  along  again  at  his 
heels. 

Suddenly  it  struck  Clayton  as  rather  strange  that,  in  al> 
the  time  since  his  return  from  Europe,  only  four  people  had 
shown  any  but  a  sort  of  academic  interest  in  the  war,  and 
that,  ironically  enough,  a  German  had  been  the  first  to  make 
a  sacrifice  for  principle.  Chris  had  gone,  to  get  out  of  trouble. 
The  little  caddie  wanted  to  go,  to  get  a  "whack"  at  the  mad 
men  of  Europe.  And  Jackson,  the  chauffeur,  was  going, 
giving  up  his  excellent  wages  to  accept  the  thirty-odd  dollars 
a  month  of  a  non-com,  from  a  pure  sense  of  responsibility. 

But,  among  the  men  he  knew  best,  in  business  and  in  the. 


74 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

clubs,  the  war  still  remained  a  magnificent  spectacle.  A  daily 
newspaper  drama. 

Suddenly  Clayton  saw  Audrey  Valentine.  She  was  swing 
ing  toward  him,  her  bag  with  its  clubs  slung  over  her  shoulder, 
her  hands  in  the  pockets  of  an  orange-colored  sweater.  In 
her  black  velvet  tarn  and  short  skirt  she  had  looked  like  a 
little  girl,  and  at  first  he  did  not  recognize  her.  She  had  seen 
him,  however,  and  swung  toward  him. 

"Hello,  Clay,"  she  called,  when  they  were  within  hailing 
distance.  "Bully  shot,  that  last." 

"Where's  your  caddie?" 

"I  didn't  want  one.  I  had  a  feeling  that,  if  I  took  one, 
and  he  lost  a  ball  in  these  impecunious  times  of  mine,  I'd  mur 
der  him.  Saw  you  at  the  fifth  hole.  I'd  know  you*-  silhouette 
anywhere." 

Under  her  rakish  cap  her  eyes  were  rather  defiant.  She 
did  not  want  pity ;  she  almost  dared  him  to  pity  her. 

"Come  round  again  with  me,  Audrey,  won't  you?" 

"I'm  off  my  game  to-day.  I'll  wander  along,  if  you  don't 
mind.  I'll  probably  sneeze  or  something  when  you're  driv 
ing,  of  course." 

"Nothing,"  he  said,  gravely  approaching  his  ball,  "so  adds 
distance  to  my  drive  as  a  good  explosive  sneeze  just  be 
hind  it." 

They  talked  very  little.  Audrey  whistled  as  she  walked 
along  with  the  free  swinging  step  that  was  characteristic  of 
her,  and  Clayton  was  satisfied  merely  to  have  her  compan 
ionship.  She  was  not  like  some  women ;  a  man  didn't  have  to 
be  paying  her  compliments  or  making  love  to  her.  She  even 
made  no  comments  on  his  shots,  and  after  a  time  that  rather 
annoyed  him. 

"Well?"  he  demanded,  after  an  excellent  putt.  "Was  that 
good  or  wasn't  it?" 

"Very  good,"  she  said  gravely.  "I  am  only  surprised  when 
you  do  a  thing  badly.  Not  when  you  do  it  well." 

He  thought  that  over. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 75 

"Have  you  anything  in  mind  that  I  do  badly  ?  I  mean,  par 
ticularly  in  mind." 

"Not  very  much/'  But  after  a  moment :  "Why  don't  you 
make  Natalie  play  golf?" 

"She  hates  it." 

He  rather  wondered  if  she  thought  Natalie  was  one  of  the 
things  he  managed  badly. 

The  sense  of  companionship  warmed  him.  Although  neither 
of  them  realized  it,  their  mutual  loneliness  and  dissatisfac 
tion  had  brought  them  together,  and  mentally  at  least  they 
were  clinging,  each  desperately  to  the  other.  But  their  talk 
was  disjointed : 

"I'll  return  that  hundred  soon.    I've  sold  the  house." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  worry  about  it.  It's  ridiculous, 
Audrey." 

And,  a  hundred  yards  or  so  further  on,  "They  wouldn't 
have  Chris  in  Canada.  His  heart.  He's  going  into  the  French 
Ambulance  service." 

"Good  for  Chris." 

But  she  came  out  very  frankly,  when  they  started  back  to 
the  clubhouse. 

"It's  done  me  a  lot  of  good,  meeting  you,  Clay.  There's 
something  so  big  and  solid  and  dependable  about  you.  I 
wonder — I  suppose  you  don't  mind  my  using  you  as  a  sort 
of  anchor  to  windward?" 

"Good  heavens,  Audrey!     If  I  could  only  do  something." 

"You  don't  have  to  do  a  thing."  She  smiled  up  at  him,  and 
her  old  audacity  was  quite  gone.  "You've  just  got  to  be. 
And — you  don't  have  to  send  me  flowers,  you  know.  I  mean, 
I  understand  that  you're  sorry  for  me,  without  that.  You're 
the  only  person  in  the  world  I'd  allow  to  be  sorry  for  me." 

He  was  touched.  There  was  no  coquetry  in  her  manner. 
She  paid  her  little  tribute  quite  sincerely  and  frankly. 

"I've  been  taking  stock  to-day,"  she  went  on,  "and  I  put 
you  among  my  assets.  One  reliable  gentleman,  six  feet  tall, 


76  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

weight  about  a  hundred  and  seventy,  in  good  condition. 
Heavens,  what  a  lot  of  liabilities  you  had  to  off-set !" 

He  stopped  and  looked  down  at  her. 

"Audrey  dear,"  he  said,  "what  am  I  to  say  to  all  that? 
What  can  I  do  ?  How  can  I  help  ?" 

"You  might  tell  me No,  that's  silly." 

"What  is  silly?" 

But  she  did  not  answer.  She  called  "Joey!"  and  gave  him 
her  clubs. 

"Joey  wants  to  be  a  soldier,"  she  observed. 

"So  he  says." 

"I  want  to  be  a  soldier,  too,  Clay.    A  good  soldier." 

He  suspected  that  she  was  rather  close  to  unusual  tears. 

As  they  approached  the  clubhouse  they  saw  Graham  and 
Marion  Hayden  standing  outside.  Graham  was  absently 
dropping  balls  and  swinging  at  them.  It  was  too  late  when 
Clayton  saw  the  danger  and  shouted  sharply. 

A  ball  caught  the  caddie  on  the  side  of  the  head  and  he 
dropped  like  a  shot 


All  through  that  night  Clayton  and  Audrey  Valentine  sat 
by  the  boy's  white  bed  in  the  hospital.  Clayton  knew  Graham 
was  waiting  outside,  but  he  did  not  go  out  to  speak  to  him. 
He  was  afraid  of  himself,  afraid  in  his  anger  that  he  would 
widen  the  breach  between  them. 

Early  in  the  evening  Natalie  had  come,  in  a  great  evening- 
coat  that  looked  queerly  out  of  place,  but  she  had  come,  he 
knew,  not  through  sympathy  for  the  thin  little  figure  on  the 
bed,  but  as  he  had  known  she  would  come,  to  plead  for 
Graham.  And  her  cry  of  joy  when  the  surgeons  had  said 
the  boy  would  live  was  again  for  Graham. 

She  had  been  too  engrossed  to  comment  on  Audrey's  pres 
ence  there,  and  Audrey  had  gone  out  immediately  and  left 
them  together.  Clayton  was  forced,  that  night,  to  an  unwill 
ing  comparison  of  Natalie  with  another  woman.  On  the  sur- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 77 

face  of  their  lives,  where  only  they  met,  Natalie  had  always 
borne  comparison  well.  But  here  was  a  new  standard  to 
measure  by,  and  another  woman,  a  woman  with  hands  to 
serve  and  watchful,  intelligent  eyes,  outmeasured  her. 

Not  that  Clayton  knew  all  this.  He  felt,  in  a  vague  way, 
that  Natalie  was  out  of  place  there,  and  he  felt,  even  more 
strongly,  that  she  had  not  the  faintest  interest  in  the  still 
figure  on  its  white  bed — save  as  it  touched  Graham  and  her 
self. 

He  was  resentful,  too,  that  she  felt  it  necessary  to  plead 
with  him  for  his  own  boy.  Good  God,  if  she  felt  that  way 
about  him,  no  wonder  Graham 

She  had  placed  a  hand  on  Clayton's  arm,  as  he  sat  in  that 
endless  vigil,  and  bent  down  to  whisper,  although  no  sound 
would  have  penetrated  that  death-like  stupor. 

"It  was  an  accident,  Clay,"  she  pled.  "You  know  Gra 
ham's  the  kindest  soul  in  the  world.  You  know  that,  Clay." 

"He  had  been  drinking."  His  voice  sounded  cold  and 
strained  to  his  own  ears. 

"Not  much.    Almost  nothing,  Toots  says  positively." 

"Then  I'd  rather  he  had  been,  Natalie.  If  he  drove  that 
ball  out  of  wanton  indifference " 

"He  didn't  see  the  boy." 

"He  should  have  looked." 

In  her  anger  she  ceased  her  sibilant  whispering,  and  stood 
erect. 

"I  told  him  you'd  be  hard,"  she  said.  "He's  outside,  half- 
sick  with  fright,  because  he  is  afraid.  Afraid  of  you,"  she 
added,  and  went  out,  her  silks  rustling  in  the  quiet  corridor. 

She  had  gone  away  soon  after  that,  the  nurse  informed 
him.  And  toward  dawn  Clayton  left  Audrey  in  the  sick  room 
and  found  Graham.  He  was  asleep  in  a  chair  in  the  waiting- 
room,  and  looked  boyish  and  very  tired.  Clayton's  heart  con 
tracted. 

He  went  back  to  his  vigil,  and  let  Graham  sleep  on. 

Some  time  later  he  roused  from  a  doze  in  his  chair.     Gra- 


78 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

ham  was  across  the  bed  from  him,  looking  down.  Audrey 
was  gone.  And  the  injured  boy  stirred  and  opened  his  eyes. 

"H-hello,  Joey,"  said  Graham,  with  a  catch  in  his  voice. 

Joey  lay  still,  his  eyes  taking  in  his  new  surroundings. 
Then  he  put  out  a  hand  and  touched  the  bandage  on  his  head. 

"What  I  got  on  ?"  he  demanded,  faintly. 

Graham  caught  his  father's  eyes  across  the  bed,  and  smiled 
a  shaky,  tremulous  smile. 

"I  guess  he's  all  right,  Father,"  he  said.  And  suddenly 
crumpled  up  beside  the  bed,  and  fell  into  a  paroxysm  of 
silent  sobbing.  With  his  arm  around  the  boy's  shoulders, 
Clayton  felt  in  that  gray  dawn  the  greatest  thankfulness  of 
his  life.  Joey  would  live.  That  cup  was  taken  from  his 
boy's  lips.  And  he  and  Graham  were  together  again,  close  to 
gether.  The  boy's  grip  on  his  hand  was  tight.  Please  God, 
they  would  always  be  together  from  now  on. 


'CHAPTER  IX 

CLAYTON  did  not  care  to  tell  Natalie  of  Chris's  flight. 
She  would  learn  it  soon  enough,  he  knew,  and  he  felt 
unwilling  to  discuss  the  affair  as  Natalie  would  want  to  dis 
cuss  it.  Not  that  he  cared  about  Chris,  but  he  had  begun 
to  feel  a  protective  interest  in  Audrey  Valentine,  an  interest 
that  had  in  it  a  curious  aversion  to  hearing  her  name  in  con 
nection  with  Chris's  sordid  story. 

He  and  Natalie  met  rarely  in  the  next  few  days.  He  dined 
frequently  at  his  club  with  men  connected  in  various  ways 
with  the  new  enterprise,  and  transacted  an  enormous  amount 
of  business  over  the  dinner  or  kmcheon  table.  Natalie's 
door  was  always  closed  on  those  occasions  when  he  returned, 
and  he  felt  that  with  the  stubbornness  characteristic  of  her 
she  was  still  harboring  resentment  against  him  for  what  he 
had  said  at  the  hospital. 

He  knew  she  was  spending  most  of  her  days  at  Linndale, 
and  he  had  a  vague  idea  that  she  and  Rodney  together  had 
been  elaborating  still  further  on  the  plans  for  the  house.  It 
was  the  furtiveness  of  it  rather  than  the  fact  itself  that 
troubled  him.  He  was  open  and  straightforward  himself. 
Why  couldn't  Natalie  be  frank  with  him? 

It  was  Mrs.  Haverford,  punctually  paying  her  dinner-call 
in  an  age  which  exacts  dinner-calls  no  longer — even  from  its 
bachelors — who  brought  Natalie  the  news  of  Chris's  going. 
Natalie,  who  went  down  to  see  her  with  a  mental  protest, 
found  her  at  a  drawing-room  window,  making  violent  signals 
at  somebody  without,  and  was  unable  to  conceal  her  amaze 
ment. 

"It's  Delight,"  explained  Mrs.  Haverford.  "She's  driving 
me  round.  She  won't  come  in,  and  she's  forgotten  her  fur 

79 


8o DANGEROUS  DAYS 

coat.  And  it's  simply  bitter  outside.  Well,  my  dear,  how 
are  you?" 

Natalie  was  well,  and  said  so.  She  was  conscious  that  Mrs. 
Haverford  was  listening  with  only  half  an  ear,  and  indeed, 
a  moment  later  she  had  risen  again  and  hurried  to  the  win 
dow. 

"Natalie !"  she  cried.  "Do  come  and  watch.  She's  turning 
the  car.  We  do  think  she  drives  wonderfully.  Only  a  few 
days,  too." 

"Why  won't  she  come  in?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Unless  she  is  afraid  Graham  may 
be  here." 

"What  in  the  world  has  Graham  got  to  do  with  it?"  Natalie's 
voice  was  faintly  scornful. 

"I  was  going  to  ask  you  that,  Natalie.  Have  they  quar 
reled,  or  anything?" 

"I  don't  think  they  meet  at  all,  do  they?" 

"They  met  once  since  Clayton  gave  Doctor  Haverford  the 
car.  Graham  helped  her  when  she  had  got  into  a  ditch,  I 
believe.  And  I  thought  perhaps  they  had  quarreled  about 
something." 

"That  would  imply  a  degree  of  intimacy  that  hardly  exists, 
does  it?"  Natalie  said,  sharply. 

But  Mrs.  Haverford  had  not  fought  the  verbal  battles  of 
the  parish  for  twenty  years  in  vain. 

"It  was  the  day  of  that  unfortunate  incident  at  the  coun 
try  club,  Natalie." 

Natalie  colored. 

"Accident,  rather  than  incident." 

"How  is  the  poor  child?" 

"He  is  quite  well  again,"  Natalie  said  impatiently.  "I  can 
not  understand  the  amount  of  fuss  every  one  makes  over 
the  boy.  He  ran  in  front  of  where  Graham  was  driving,  and 
got  what  he  probably  deserved." 

"I  understand  Clayton  has  given  him  a  position." 

"He  has  made  him  an  office  boy." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 81 

"How  like  dear  Clayton!"  breathed  Mrs.  Haverford,  and 
counted  the  honors  as  hers.  But  she  had  not  come  to  quarrel. 
She  had  had,  indeed,  a  frankly  benevolent  purpose  in  com 
ing,  and  she  proceeded  to  carry  it  out  at  once. 

"I  do  think,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "that  some  one  ought  to 
tell  Audrey  Valentine  the  stories  that  are  going  about." 

"What  has  she  been  doing?"  Natalie  asked,  with  her  cool 
smile.  "There  is  always  some  story  about  Audrey,  isn't 
there?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  haven't  heard?" 

"I  don't  hear  much  gossip." 

Mrs.  Haverford  let  that  pass. 

"You  know  how  rabid  she  has  been  about  the  war.  Well, 
the  story  is,"  she  went  on,  with  a  certain  unction,  "that  she 
has  driven  Chris  to  enlisting  in  the  Foreign  Legion,  or  some 
thing.  Anyhow,  he  sailed  from  Halifax  last  week." 

Natalie  straightened  in  her  chair. 

"Are  you  certain?" 

"It's  town  talk,  my  dear.  Doctor  Haverford  spoke  to 
Clayton  about  it  some  days  ago.  He  rather  gathered  Clayton 
already  knew." 

That,  too,  was  like  dear  Clayton,  Natalie  reflected  bitterly. 
He  had  told  her  nothing.  In  her  heart  she  added  secretiveness 
to  the  long  list  of  Clayton's  deficiencies  toward  her. 

"Personally,  I  imagine  they  were  heavily  in  debt,"  Mrs. 
Haverford  went  on.  "They  had  been  living  beyond  their 
means,  of  course.  I  like  Mrs.  Valentine,  but  I  do  think, 
to  drive  a  man  to  his  death,  or  what  may  be  his  death " 

"I  don't  believe  it.  I  don't  believe  he  went  to  fight,  any 
way.  He  was  probably  in  some  sort  of  a  scrape." 

"She  has  sold  her  house." 

Natalie's  impulse  of  sympathy  toward  Audrey  was  drowned 
in  her  rising  indignation.  That  all  this  could  happen  and 
Audrey  not  let  her  know  was  incredible. 

"I  haven't  seen  her  recently,"  she  said  coldly. 

"Nobody  has.    I  do  think  she  might  have  seen  her  clergy- 


82  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

man.  There  is  a  time  when  only  the  church  can  give  us  the 
comfort  we  need,  my  dear." 

And  whatever  Mrs.  Haverford's  faults,  she  meant  that 
quite  simply. 

"And  you  say  Clay  knew?" 

"It's  rather  likely  he  would.  They  were  golfing  together, 
weren't  they,  when  that  caddie  was  hurt?" 

Natalie  was  not  a  jealous  woman.  She  had,  for  years, 
taken  Clay's  faithfulness  for  granted,  and  her  own  com 
placency  admitted  no  chance  of  such  a  possibility.  But  she 
was  quick  to  realize  that  she  had  him  at  a  disadvantage. 

"How  long  have  you  known  it?"  she  asked  him  that  night, 
when,  after  the  long  dinner  was  over,  she  sat  with  her  elbows 
on  the  table  and  faced  him  across  the  candles. 

He  was  tired  and  depressed,  and  his  fine  face  looked  drawn. 
But  he  roused  and  smiled  across  at  her.  He  had  begun  to 
have  a  feeling  that  he  must  make  up  to  Natalie  for  something 
— he  hardly  knew  for  what. 

"Known  what,  dear?" 

"About  Chris  and  Audrey?" 

He  was  fundamentally  honest,  so  he  answered  her  directly. 

"Since  the  day  Chris  left." 

"When  was  that?" 

"The  day  we  dined  there." 

"And  Audrey  told  you?" 

"She  had  to,  in  a  way.  I'm  sure  she'll  tell  you  herself. 
She's  been  rather  hiding  away,  I  imagine." 

"Why  did  she  have  to  tell  you?" 

"If  you  want  the  exact  truth,  she  borrowed  a  small  sum 
from  me,  as  the  banks  were  closed,  naturally.  There  was 
some  emergency — I  don't  know  what." 

"She  borrowed  from  you !" 

"A  very  small  amount,  my  dear.  Don't  look  like  that, 
Natalie.  She  knew  I  generally  carried  money  with  me." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  jealous!     Audrey  probably  thinks  of  you  as 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  83 

a  sort  of  grandfather,  anyhow.  It's  not  that.  It  is  your 
keeping  the  thing  from  me." 

"It  was  not  my  secret." 

But  Natalie  was  jealous.  She  had  that  curious  jealousy 
of  her  friends  which  some  women  are  cursed  with,  of  being 
first  in  their  regard  and  their  confidence.  A  slow  and  smolder 
ing  anger  against  Audrey,  which  had  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  Clayton,  darkened  her  eyes. 

"I'm  through  with  Audrey.    That's  all,"  she  said. 

And  the  man  across  regarded  her  with  a  sort  of  puzzled 
wonder. 

Her  indignation  against  Clayton  took  the  form  of  calcula 
tion;  and  she  was  quick  to  pursue  her  advantage.  In  the 
library  she  produced  the  new  and  enlarged  plans  for  the  house. 

"Roddie  says  he  has  tried  to  call  you  at  the  mill,  but  you 
are  always  out  of  your  office.  So  he  sent  these  around  to 
day." 

True  to  the  resolution  he  had  made  that  night  in  the  hos 
pital,  he  went  over  them  carefully.  And  even  their  magni 
tude,  while  it  alarmed  him,  brought  no  protest  from  him. 
After  all  the  mill  and  the  new  plant  were  his  toys  to  play 
with.  He  found  there  something  to  fill  up  the  emptiness  of 
his  life.  If  a  great  house  was  Natalie's  ambition,  if  it  gave 
her  pleasure  and  something  to  live  for,  she  ought  to  have  it. 

She  had  prepared  herself  for  a  protest,  but  he  made  none, 
even  when  the  rather  startling  estimate  was  placed  before 
him. 

"I  just  want  you  to  be  happy,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "But  I 
hope  you'll  arrange  not  to  run  over  the  estimate.  It  is  being 
pretty  expensive  as  it  is.  But  after  all,  success  doesn't  mean 
anything,  unless  we  are  going  to  get  something  out  of  it." 

They  were  closer  together  that  evening  than  they  had  been 
for  months.  And  at  last  he  fell  to  talking  about  the  mill. 
Natalie,  curled  up  on  the  chaise  tongue  in  her  boudoir,  listened 
attentively,  but  with  small  comprehension  as  he  poured  out 
his  dream,  for  himself  now,  for  Graham  later.  A  few  years 


84 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

more  and  he  would  retire.  Graham  could  take  hold  then. 
He  might  even  go  into  politics.  He  would  be  fifty  then,  and 
a  man  of  fifty  should  be  in  his  prime.  And  to  retire  and  do 
nothing  was  impossible.  A  fellow  went  to  seed. 

Eyes  on  the  wood  fire,  he  talked  on  until  at  last,  roused  by 
Natalie's  silence,  he  glanced  up.  She  was  sound  asleep. 

Some  time  later,  in  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  he  came 
and  roused  her.  She  smiled  up  at  him  like  a  drowsy  child. 

"Awfully  tired,"  she  said.    "Is  Graham  in?" 

"Not  yet." 

She  held  up  her  hands,  and  he  drew  her  to  her  feet. 

"You've  been  awfully  dear  about  the  house,"  she  said.  And 
standing  on  tiptoe,  she  kissed  him  on  the  cheek.  Still  hold 
ing  both  her  hands,  he  looked  down  at  her  gravely. 

"Do  you  really  think  that,  Natalie?" 

"Of  course." 

"Then — will  you  do  something  in  return?" 

Her  eyes  became  shrewd,  watchful. 

"Anything  in  reason." 

"Don't,  don't,  dear,  make  Graham  afraid  of  me." 

"As  if  I  did !    If  he  is  afraid  of  you,  it  is  your  own  fault." 

"Perhaps  it  is.  But  I  try—good  God,  Natalie,  I  do  try. 
He  needs  a  curb  now  and  then.  All  boys  do.  But  if  we  could 
only  agree  on  it — don't  you  see  how  it  is  now?"  he  asked, 
trying  to  reason  gently  with  her.  "All  the  discipline  comes 
from  me,  all  the  indulgence  from  you.  And — I  don't  want 
to  lose  my  boy,  my  dear." 

She  freed  her  hands. 

"So  we  couldn't  even  have  one  happy  evening!"  she  said. 
"I  won't  quarrel  with  you,  Clay.  And  I  won't  be  tragic  over 
Graham.  If  you'll  just  be  human  to  him,  he'll  come  out  all 
right." 

She  went  into  her  bedroom,  the  heavy  lace  of  her  negligee 
trailing  behind  her,  and  closed  the  door. 

Clayton  had  a  visitor  the  next  morning  at  the  mill,  a  man 
named  Dunbar,  who  marked  on  his  visitors'  slip,  under  the 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 85 

heading  of  his  business  with  the  head  of  the  concern,  the 
words,  "Private  and  confidential." 

Clayton,  looking  up,  saw  a  small  man,  in  a  suit  too  large  for 
him,  and  with  ears  that  projected  wide  on  either  side  of  a 
shrewd,  rather  humorous  face. 

"Mr.  Spencer?" 

"Yes.    Sit  down,  please." 

Even  through  the  closed  window  the  noise  of  the  mill  pene 
trated.  The  yard-engine  whistled  shrilly.  The  clatter  of 
motor- trucks,  the  far  away  roar  of  the  furnaces,  the  imme 
diate  vicinity  of  many  typewriters,  made  a  very  bedlam  of 
sound.  Mr.  Dunbar  drew  his  chair  closer,  and  laid  a  card 
on  the  desk. 

"My  credentials,"  he  explained. 

Clayton  read  the  card. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Dunbar.    What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Dunbar  fixed  him  with  shrewd,  light  eyes,  and  bent  for 
ward. 

"Have  you  had  any  trouble  in  your  mill,  Mr.  Spencer  ?" 

"None  whatever." 

"Are  you  taking  any  measures  to  prevent  trouble?" 

"I  had  expected  to.  Not  that  I  fear  anything,  but  of  course 
no  one  can  tell.  We  have  barely  commenced  to  get  lined  up 
for  our  new  work." 

"May  I  ask  the  nature  of  the  precautions  ?" 

Clayton  told  him,  with  an  uneasy  feeling  that  Mr.  Dun- 
bar  was  finding  them  childish  and  inefficient. 

"Exactly,"  said  his  visitor.  "And  well  enough  as  far  as 
they  go.  They  don't  go  far  enough.  The  trouble  with  you 
manufacturers  is  that  you  only  recognize  one  sort  of  trouble, 
and  that's  a  strike.  I  suppose  you  know  that  the  Kaiser  has 
said,  if  we  enter  the  war,  that  he  need  not  send  an  army 
here  at  all.  That  his  army  is  here  already,  armed  and 
equipped." 

"Bravado,"  said  Clayton. 

"I  wonder!" 


86 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Mr.  Dunbar  reached  into  his  breast  pocket,  and  produced 
a  long  typed  memorandum. 

"You  might  just  glance  at  that." 

Clayton  read  it  carefully.  It  was  a  list  of  fires,  mostly  in 
granaries  and  warehouses,  and  the  total  loss  was  appalling. 

"All  German  work/'  said  his  visitor.  "Arson,  for  the 
Fatherland.  All  supplies  for  the  Allies,  you  see.  I've  got 
other  similar  lists,  here,  all  German  deviltry.  And  they're 
only  commencing.  If  we  go  into  the  war " 

The  immediate  result  of  the  visit  was  that  Clayton  be 
came  a  member  of  a  protective  league  which  undertook,  with 
his  cooperation,  to  police  and  guard  the  mill.  But  Mr.  Dun- 
bar's  last  words  left  him  thinking  profoundly. 

"We're  going  to  be  in  it,  that's  sure.  And  soon.  And  Ger 
many's  army  is  here.  It's  not  only  Germans  either.  It's  the 
I.  W.  W.,  for  one  thing.  We've  got  a  list  through  the  British 
post-office  censor,  of  a  lot  of  those  fellows  who  are  taking 
German  money  to-day.  They're  against  everything.  Not 
only  work.  They're  against  law  and  order.  And  they're  likely 
to  raise  hell." 

He  rose  to  leave. 

"How  do  your  Germans  like  making  shells  for  the  Allies?" 
he  asked. 

"We  haven't  a  great  many.  We've  had  no  trouble.  One 
man  resigned — a  boss  roller.  That's  all." 

"Watch  him.     He's  got  a  grievance." 

"He's  been  here  a  long  time.  I  haven't  an  idea  he'd  do  us 
any  harm.  It  was  a  matter  of  principle  with  him." 

"Oh,  it's  a  matter  of  principle  with  all  of  them.  They 
can  justify  themselves  seven  ways  to  the  ace.  Keep  an  eye 
on  him,  or  let  us  do  it  for  you." 

Clayton  sat  for  some  time  after  Dunbar  had  gone.  Was 
it  possible  that  Klein,  or  men  like  Klein,  old  employees  and 
faithful  for  years,  could  be  reached  by  the  insidious  wicked 
ness  of  Germany?  It  was  incredible.  But  then  the  whole 
situation  was  incredible ;  that  a  peaceful  and  home-loving  peo- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 87 

pie,  to  all  appearances,  should  suddenly  shed  the  sheep  skin 
of  years  of  dissimulation,  and  appear  as  the  wolves  of  the 
world. 

One  of  his  men  had  died  on  the  Lusitania,  a  quiet  little 
chap,  with  a  family  in  the  suburbs  and  a  mania  for  raising 
dahlias.  He  had  been  in  the  habit  of  bringing  in  his  best 
specimens,  and  putting  them  in  water  on  Clayton's  desk.  His 
pressed  glass  vase  was  still  there,  empty. 

Then  his  mind  went  back  to  Herman  Klein.  He  had  a 
daughter  in  the  mill.  She  was  earning  the  livelihood  for  the 
family  now,  temporarily.  And  the  Germans  were  thrifty. 
If  for  no  other  reason  he  thought  Klein  would  not  imperil 
either  his  daughter's  safety  or  her  salary. 

There  was  a  good  bit  of  talk  about  German  hate,  but  surely 
there  was  no  hate  in  Klein. 

Something  else  Dunbar  had  said  stuck  in  his  mind. 

"We've  got  to  get  wise,  and  soon.  It's  too  big  a  job  for 
the  regular  departments  to  handle.  Every  city  in  the  country 
and  every  town  ought  to  have  a  civilian  organization  to  watch 
and  to  fight  it  if  it  has  to.  They're  hiding  among  us  every 
where,  and  every  citizen  has  got  to  be  a  sleuth,  if  we're  to 
counter  their  moves.  Every  man  his  own  detective !" 

He  had  smiled  as  he  said  it,  but  Clayton  had  surmised  a 
great  earnestness  and  considerable  knowledge  behind  the 
smile. 


CHAPTER  X 

DELIGHT  HAVERFORD  was  to  come  out  in  December, 
but  there  were  times  when  the  Doctor  wondered  if  she 
was  really  as  keen  about  it  as  she  pretended  to  be.  He  found 
her  once  or  twice,  her  usually  active  hands  idle  in  her  lap, 
and  a  pensive  droop  to  her  humorous  young  mouth. 

"Tired,  honey?"  he  asked,  on  one  of  those  occasions. 

"No.     Just  talking  to  myself." 

"Say  a  few  nice  things  for  me,  while  you're  about  it,  then." 

"Nice  things !    I  don't  deserve  them." 

"What  awful  crime  have  you  been  committing?  Break  it 
to  me  gently.  You  know  my  weak  heart." 

"Your  tobacco  heart!"  she  said,  severely.  "Well,  I've  been 
committing  a  mental  murder,  if  you  want  to  know  the  facts. 
Don't  protest.  It's  done.  She's  quite  dead  already." 

"Good  gracious!  And  I  have  reared  this  young  viper f 
Who  is  she?" 

"I  don't  intend  to  make  you  an  accessory,  daddy." 

But  behind  her  smile  he  felt  a  real  hurt.  He  would  hav& 
given  a  great  deal  to  have  taken  her  in  his  arms  and  tried 
to  coax  out  her  trouble  so  he  might  comfort  her.  But  that 
essential  fineness  in  him  which  his  worldliness  only  covered 
like  a  veneer  told  him  not  to  force  her  confidence.  Only,  he 
wandered  off  rather  disconsolately  to  hunt  his  pipe  and  to 
try  to  realize  that  Delight  was  now  a  woman  grown,  and 
liable  to  woman's  heart-aches. 

"What  do  you  think  it  is  ?"  he  asked  that  night,  when  after 
her  nightly  custom  Mrs.  Haverford  had  reached  over  from 
the  bed  beside  his  and  with  a  single  competent  gesture  had 
taken  away  his  book  and  switched  off  his  reading  lamp,  and 

88 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  89 

he  had,  with  the  courage  of  darkness,  voiced  a  certain  un 
easiness. 

"Who  do  you  think  it  is,  you  mean." 

"Very  well,  only  the  word  is  'whom/  * 

Mrs.  Haverford  ignored  this. 

"It's  that  Hayden  girl/'  she  said.  "Toots.  And  Graham 
Spencer." 

"Do  you  think  that  Delight " 

"She  always  has.    For  years." 

Which  was  apparently  quite  clear  to  them  both. 

"If  it  had  only  been  a  nice  girl,"  Mrs.  Haverford  protested, 
plaintively.  "But  Toots !  She's  fast,  I'm  sure  of  it." 

"My  dear !" 

"And  that  boy  needs  a  decent  girl,  if  anybody  ever  did.  A 
shallow  mother,  and  a  money-making  father — all  Toots  Hay- 
den  wants  is  his  money.  She's  ages  older  than  he  is.  I  hear 
he  is  there  every  day  and  all  of  Sundays." 

The  rector  had  precisely  as  much  guile  as  a  turtle  dove, 
and  long  after  Mrs.  Haverford  gave  unmistakable  evidences 
of  slumber,  he  lay  with  his  arms  above  his  head,  and  plotted. 
He  had  no  conscience  whatever  about  it.  He  threw  his 
scruples  to  the  wind,  and  if  it  is  possible  to  follow  the  twists 
of  a  theological  mind  turned  from  the  straight  and  narrow 
way  into  the  maze  of  conspiracy,  his  thoughts  ran  something 
like  this: 

"She  is  Delight.  Therefore  to  see  her  is  to  love  her.  To 
see  her  with  any  other  girl  is  to  see  her  infinite  superiority 
and  charm.  Therefore " 

Therefore,  on  the  following  Sunday  afternoon,  the  totally 
unsuspecting  daughter  of  a  good  man  gone  wrong  took  a  note 
from  the  rector  to  the  Hayden  house,  about  something  or 
other  of  no  importance,  and  was  instructed  to  wait  for  an 
answer.  And  the  rector,  vastly  uneasy  and  rather  pleased 
with  himself,  took  refuge  in  the  parish  house  and  waited  ten 
eternities,  or  one  hour  by  the  clock. 

Delight  herself  was  totally  unsuspicious.     The  rectory  on 


90 DANGEROUS  DAYS         

a  Sunday  afternoon  was  very  quiet,  and  she  was  glad  to  get 
away.  She  drove  over,  and  being  in  no  hurry  she  went  by 
the  Spencer  house.  She  did  that  now  and  then,  making  vari 
ous  excuses  to  herself,  such  as  liking  the  policeman  at  the 
corner  or  wanting  to  see  the  river  from  the  end  of  the  street. 
But  all  she  saw  that  day  was  Rodney  Page  going  in,  in  a  top 
hat  and  very  bright  gloves. 

"Precious  !"  said  Delight  to  herself.  Her  bump  of  reverence 
was  very  small. 

But  she  felt  a  little  thrill,  as  she  always  did,  when  she 
passed  the  house.  Since  she  could  remember  she  had  cared 
for  Graham.  She  did  not  actually  know  that  she  loved  him. 
She  told  herself  bravely  that  she  was  awfully  fond  of  him, 
and  that  it  was  silly,  because  he  never  would  amount  to  any 
thing.  But  she  had  a  little  argument  of  her  own,  for  such 
occasions,  which  said  that  being  really  fond  of  any  one  meant 
knowing  all  about  them  and  liking  them  anyhow. 

She  stopped  the  car  at  the  Hayden  house,  and  carried  her 
note  to  the  door.  When  she  went  in,  however,  she  was  in 
stantly  uncomfortable.  The  place  reeked  with  smoke,  and 
undeniably  there  was  dancing  going  on  somewhere.  A  phono 
graph  was  scraping  noisily.  Delight's  small  nose  lifted  a  lit 
tle.  What  a  deadly  place!  Coming  in  from  the  fresh  out 
doors,  the  noise  and  smoke  and  bar-room  reek  stifled  her. 

Then  a  door  opened,  and  Marion  Hayden  was  drawing  her 
into  a  room. 

"How  providential,  Delight!"  she  said.  "You'll  take  my 
hand,  won't  you?  It's  Graham's  dummy,  and  we  want  to 
dance." 

The  two  connecting  rooms  were  full  of  people,  and  the  air 
was  heavy.  Through  the  haze  she  saw  Graham,  and  nodded 
to  him,  but  with  a  little  sinking  of  the  heart.  She  was  aware, 
however,  that  he  was  looking  at  her  with  a  curious  intentness 
and  a  certain  expectancy.  Maybe  he  only  hoped  she  would  let 
him  dance  with  Toots. 

"No,  thanks,"  she  said.    "Sorry." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  91 


"Why  not,  Delight?    Just  a  hand,  anyhow." 

"Three  good  reasons:  I  don't  play  cards  on  Sunday;  I 
don't  ever  play  for  money ;  and  I'm  stifling  for  breath  already 
in  this  air." 

She  was,  indeed,  a  little  breathless. 

There  was,  had  she  only  seen  it,  relief  in  Graham's  face. 
She  did  not  belong  there,  he  felt.  Delight  was — well,  she 
was  different.  He  had  not  been  thinking  of  her  before  she 
came  in;  he  forgot  her  promptly  the  -iment  she  went  out. 
But  she  had  given  him,  for  an  instan.,  a  breath  of  the  fresh 
out-doors,  and  quietness  and — perhaps  something  clean  and 
fine. 

There  was  an  insistent  clamor  that  she  stay,  and  Tommy 
Hale  even  got  down  on  his  knees  and  made  a  quite  impas 
sioned  appeal.  But  Delight's  chin  was  very  high,  although 
she  smiled. 

"You  are  all  very  nice,"  she  said.  "But  I'm  sure  I'd  bore 
you  in  a  minute,  and  I'm  certain  you'd  bore  me.  Besides, 
I  think  you're  quite  likely  to  be  raided." 

Which  met  with  great  applause. 

But  there  was  nothing  of  Delight  of  the  high  head  when 
she  got  out  of  her  car  and  crept  up  the  rectory  steps.  How 
could  she  even  have  cared?  How  could  she?  That  was  his 
life,  those  were  the  people  he  chose  to  play  with.  She  had 
a  sense  of  loss,  rather  than  injury. 

The  rector,  tapping  at  her  door  a  little  later,  received  the 
answer  to  his  note  through  a  very  narrow  crack,  and  went 
away  feeling  that  the  way  of  the  wicked  is  indeed  hard. 

Clayton  had  been  watching  with  growing  concern  Gra 
ham's  intimacy  with  the  gay  crowd  that  revolved  around 
Marion  Hayden.  It  was  more  thoughtless  than  vicious ;  more 
pleasure-seeking  than  wicked;  but  its  influence  was  bad,  and 
he  knew  it. 

But  he  was  very  busy.  At  night  he  was  too  tired  to  con 
front  the  inevitable  wrangle  with  Natalie  that  any  protest 


92 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

about  Graham  always  evoked,  and  he  was  anxious  not  to  dis 
turb  the  new  rapprochement  with  the  boy  by  direct  criticism. 

The  middle  of  December,  which  found  the  construction 
work  at  the  new  plant  well  advanced,  saw  the  social  season 
definitely  on,  also,  and  he  found  himself  night  after  night 
going  to  dinners  and  then  on  to  balls.  There  were  fewer 
private  dances  than  in  previous  Winters,  but  society  had  taken 
up  various  war  activities  and  made  them  fashionable.  The 
result  was  great  ch?  "  balls. 

On  these  occasions  ,  e  found  himself  watching  for  Audrey, 
always.  She  had,  with  a  sort  of  diabolical  cleverness,  suc 
ceeded  in  losing  herself.  Her  house  was  sold,  he  knew,  and 
he  had  expected  that  she  would  let  him  know  where  to  find 
her.  She  had  said  she  counted  on  him,  and  he  had  derived 
an  odd  sort  of  comfort  from  the  thought.  It  had  warmed  him 
to  think  that,  out  of  all  the  people  he  knew,  to  one  woman 
he  meant  something  more  than  success. 

But  although  he  searched  the  gayest  crowds  with  his  eyes, 
those  hilarious  groups  of  which  she  had  been  so  frequently 
the  center,  he  did  not  find  her.  And  there  had  been  no  letter 
save  a  brief  one  without  an  address,  enclosing  her  check  for 
the  money  she  had  borrowed.  She  had  apparently  gone,  not 
only  out  of  her  old  life,  but  out  of  his  as  well. 

At  one  of  the  great  charity  balls  he  met  Nolan,  and  they 
stood  together  watching  the  crowd. 

"Pretty  expensive,  I  take  it,"  Nolan  said,  indicating  the 
scene.  "Orchestra,  florist,  supper — I  wonder  how  much  the 
Belgians  will  get." 

"Personally,  I'd  rather  send  the  money  and  get  some  sleep." 

"Precisely.  But  would  you  send  the  money?  We've  got 
to  have  a  quid  pro  quo,  you  know — most  of  us."  He  surveyed 
the  crowd  with  cynical,  dissatisfied  eyes.  "At  the  end  of  two 
years  of  the  war,"  he  observed,  apropos  of  nothing,  "five  mil 
lion  men  are  dead,  and  eleven  million  have  been  wounded.  A 
lot  of  them  were  doing  this  sort  of  thing  two  years  ago." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 93 

"I  would  like  to  know  where  we  will  be  two  years  from 
now." 

"Some  of  us  won't  be  here.  Have  you  seen  Lloyd  George's 
speech  on  the  German  peace  terms  ?  That  means  going  on  to 
the  end.  A  speedy  peace  might  have  left  us  out,  but  there 
will  be  no  peace.  Not  yet,  or  soon." 

"And  still  we  don't  prepare!" 

"The  English  tradition  persists,"  said  the  Irishman,  bit 
terly.  "We  want  to  wait,  and  play  to  the  last  moment,  and 
then  upset  our  business  and  overthrow  the  whole  country, 
trying  to  get  ready  in  a  hurry." 

"I  wonder  what  they  will  do,  when  the  time  comes,  with 
men  like  you  and  myself?" 

"Take  our  money,"  said  Nolan  viciously.  "Tax  our  heads 
off.  Thank  God  I  haven't  a  son." 

Clayton  eyed  him  with  the  comprehension  of  long  acquaint 
ance. 

"Exactly,"  he  said.    "But  you'll  go  yourself,  if  you  can." 

"And  fight  for  England?    I  will  not." 

He  pursued  the  subject  further,  going  into  an  excited  ac 
count  of  Ireland's  grievances.  He  was  flushed  and  loquacious. 
He  quoted  Lloyd  George's  "quagmire  of  distrust"  in  tones 
raised  over  the  noise  of  the  band.  And  Clayton  was  con 
scious  of  a  growing  uneasiness.  How  much  of  it  was  real, 
how  much  a  pose  ?  Was  Nolan  representative  of  the  cultured 
Irishman  in  America?  And  if  he  was,  what  would  be  the 
effect  of  their  anti-English  mania?  Would  we  find  ourselves, 
like  the  British,  split  into  factions?  Or  would  the  country 
be  drawn  together  by  trouble  until  it  changed  from  a  federa 
tion  of  states  to  a  great  nation,  united  and  unbeatable? 

Were  we  really  the  melting  pot  of  the  world,  and  was  war 
the  fiery  furnace  which  was  to  fuse  us  together,  or  were  there 
elements,  like  Nolan,  like  the  German- Americans,  that  would 
never  fuse? 

He  left  Nolan  still  irritable  and  explosive,  and  danced  once 
with  Natalie,  his  only  dance  of  the  evening.  Then,  finding 


94 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

that  Rodney  Page  would  see  her  to  her  car  later,  he  went 
home. 

He  had  a  vague  sense  of  disappointment,  a  return  of  the 
critical  mood  of  the  early  days  of  his  return  from  France. 
He  went  to  his  room  and  tried  to  read,  but  he  gave  it  up, 
and  lay,  cigaret  in  hand,  thinking! 

There  ought  to  have  come  to  a  man,  when  he  reached  the 
middle  span,  certain  compensations  for  the  things  that  had 
gone  with  his  youth,  the  call  of  adventure,  the  violent  im 
pulses  of  his  early  love  life.  There  should  come,  to  take 
their  place,  friends,  a  new  zest  in  the  romance  of  achieve 
ment,  since  other  romance  had  gone,  and — peace.  But  the 
peace  of  the  middle  span  of  life  should  be  the  peace  of  ful 
fillment,  and  of  a  home  and  a  woman. 

Natalie  was  not  happy,  but  she  seemed  contented  enough. 
Her  life  satisfied  her.  The  new  house  in  the  day-time,  bridge, 
the  theater  in  the  evening  or  the  opera,  dinners,  dances,  clothes 
— they  seemed  to  be  enough  for  her.  But  his  life  was  not 
enough  for  him.  What  did  he  want  anyhow?  In  God's 
name,  what  did  he  want? 

One  night,  impatient  with  himself,  he  picked  up  the  book  of 
love  lyrics  in  its  mauve  cover,  from  his  bedside  table.  He 
read  one,  then  another.  He  read  them  slowly,  engrossingly. 
It  was  as  though  something  starved  in  him  was  feeding  eagerly 
on  this  poor  food.  Their  passion  stirred  him  as  in  his  earlier 
years  he  had  never  been  stirred.  For  just  a  little  time,  while 
Natalie  danced  that  night,  Clayton  Spencer  faced  the  tragedy 
of  the  man  in  his  prime,  still  strong  and  lusty  with  life,  with 
the  deeper  passions  of  the  deepening  years,  who  has  outgrown 
and  outloved  the  woman  he  married. 

A  man's  house  must  be  built  on  love.  Without  love  it  can 
not  stand. 

Natalie,  coming  in  much  later  and  seeing  his  light  still 
on,  found  him  sleeping,  with  one  arm  under  his  head,  and  a 
small  black  hole  burned  in  the  monogrammed  linen  sheet.  The 
book  of  poems  had  slipped  to  the  floor. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 95 

The  next  day  she  missed  it  from  its  place,  and  Clayton's 
man,  interrogated,  said  he  had  asked  to  have  it  put  away 
somewhere.  He  did  not  care  for  it.  Natalie  raised  her  eye 
brows.  She  had  thought  the  poems  rather  pretty. 

One  resolution  Clayton  made,  as  a  result  of  that  night.  He 
would  not  see  Audrey  again  if  he  could  help  it.  He  was  not 
in  love  with  her  and  he  did  not  intend  to  be.  He  was  deter 
minedly  honest  with  himself.  Men  in  his  discontented  state 
were  only  too  apt  to  build  up  a  dream-woman,  compounded 
of  their  own  starved  fancy,  and  translate  her  into  terms  of 
the  first  attractive  woman  who  happened  to  cross  the  path. 
He  was  not  going  to  be  a  driveling  idiot,  like  Chris  and  some 
of  the  other  men  he  knew.  Things  were  bad,  but  they  could 
be  much  worse. 

It  happened  then  that  when  Audrey  called  him  at  the  mill  a 
day  or  so  later  it  was  a  very  formal  voice  that  came  back  to 
her  over  the  wire.    She  was  quick  to  catch  his  tone. 
,     "I  suppose  you  hate  being  called  in  business  hours,  Clay !" 

"Not  at  all." 

"That  means  yes,  you  know.  But  I'm  going  even  further. 
I'm  coming  down  to  see  you." 

"Why,  is  anything  wrong?" 

He  could  hear  her  laughter,  a  warm  little  chuckle. 

"Don't  be  so  urgent,"  she  said  gayly.  "I  want  to  consult  you. 
That's  all.  May  I  come  ?" 

There  was  a  second's  pause.    Then, 

"Don't  you  think  I'd  better  come  to  see  you?" 

"I've  only  a  little  flat.    I  don't  think  you'll  like  it." 

"That's  nonsense.    Where  is  it  ?" 

She  gave  him  the  address. 

"When  shall  I  come?" 

"Whenever  it  suits  you.  I  have  nothing  to  do.  Say  this 
afternoon  about  four." 

That  "nothing  to  do"  was  an  odd  change,  in  itself,  for 
Audrey  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doling  out  her  time  like 
sweetmeats. 


96 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Where  in  the  world  have  you  been  all  this  time?"  he  de 
manded,  almost  angrily.  To  his  own  surprise  he  was  sud 
denly  conscious  of  a  sense  of  indignation  and  affront.  She 
had  said  she  depended  on  him,  and  then  she  had  gone  away 
and  hidden  herself.  It  was  ridiculous. 

"Just  getting  acquainted  with  myself,"  she  replied,  with 
something  of  her  old  airy  manner.  "Good-by." 

His  irritation  passed  as  quickly  as  it  came.  He  felt  calm  and 
very  sure  of  himself,  and  rather  light-hearted.  Joey,  who  was 
by  now  installed  as  an  office  adjunct,  and  who  commonly 
referred  to  the  mill  as  "ours,"  heard  him  whistling  blithely  and 
cocked  an  ear  in  the  direction  of  the  inner  room. 

"Guess  we've  made  another  million  dollars,"  he  observed  to 
the  pencil-sharpener. 

Clayton  was  not  in  the  habit  of  paying  afternoon  calls  on 
women.  The  number  of  such  calls  that  he  had  paid  without 
Natalie  during  his  married  life  could  have  been  numbered  on 
the  fingers  of  his  two  hands.  Most  of  the  men  he  knew  paid 
such  visits,  dropping  in  somewhere  for  tea  or  a  highball  on  the 
way  uptown.  He  had  preferred  his  club,  when  he  had  a 
little  time,  the  society  of  other  men. 

He  wondered  if  he  should  call  Natalie  and  tell  her.  But 
he  decided  against  it.  It  was  possible,  for  one  thing,  that 
Audrey  still  did  not  wish  her  presence  in  town  known.  If  she 
did,  she  would  tell  Natalie  herself.  And  it  was  possible,  too, 
that  she  wanted  to  discuss  Chris,  and  the  reason  for  his 
going. 

He  felt  a  real  sense  of  relief,  when  at  last  he  saw  her,  to  find 
her  looking  much  the  same  as  ever.  He  hardly  knew  what  he 
had  expected.  Audrey,  having  warned  him  as  to  the  apart 
ment,  did  not  mention  its  poverty  again.  It  was  a  tiny  little 
place,  but  it  had  an  open  fire  in  the  living-room,  and  plain, 
pale-yellow  walls,  and  she  had  given  it  that  curious  air  of  dis 
tinction  with  which  she  managed,  in  her  casual  way,  to  invest 
everything  about  her. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  97 

"I  hope  you  observe  how  neat  I  am,"  she  said,  as  she  gave 
him  her  hand.  "My  rooms,  of  course." 

"Frightfully  so." 

He  towered  in  the  low  room.  Audrey  sat  down  and  sur 
veyed  him  as  he  stood  by  the  fire. 

"It  is  nice  to  have  a  man  about  again." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  been  living  here,  without  even 
visitors,  for  two  months  ?" 

"You'll  laugh.     Clay,  I'm  studying!" 

"Studying!    What?" 

"Stenography.  Oh,  it's  not  as  bad  as  that.  I  don't  "have  to 
earn  my  living.  I've  just  got  to  do  something  for  my  soul's 
sake.  I  went  all  over  the  ground,  and  I  saw  I  was  just  a  cum- 
berer  of  the  earth,  and  then  I  thought " 

She  hesitated. 

"What  did  you  think?" 

"If,  some  time  or  other,  I  could  release  a  man  to  go  and 
fight,  it  would  be  the  next  best  thing  to  giving  myself.  Not 
here,  necessarily;  I  don't  believe  we  will  ever  go  in.  But 
in  England,  anywhere." 

"You've  released  Chris." 

"He  released  himself.  And  he's  not  fighting.  He's  driving 
an  ambulance." 

He  waited,  hoping  she  would  go  on.  He  was  not  curious, 
but  lie  thought  it  might  be  good  for  her  to  talk  Chris  and  the 
trouble  over  with  some  one.  But  she  sat  silent,  and  suddenly 
asked  him  if  he  cared  for  tea.  He  refused.  . 

"How's  Natalie?" 

"Very  well." 

"And  the  house?" 

"Held  up  by  cold  weather  now.  It  should  be  finished  by 
the  end  of  April." 

"Clay,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  "are  you  going  to  employ 
women  in  the  new  munition  works  ?" 

"In  certain  departments,  yes." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 


"I  have  a  girl  I  want  work  for.  She's  not  trained,  of 
course." 

"None  of  them  are.  We  have  to  teach  them.  I  can  give  you 
a  card  to  the  employment  department  if  you  want  it." 

"Thanks." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  She  sat  looking  at  the  fire,  and 
he  had  a  chance  to  notice  the  change  in  her.  She  had  visualized 
it  herself.  Her  long  ear-rings  were  gone,  and  with  them  some 
of  the  insolence  they  had  seemed  to  accentuate.  She  was  not 
rouged,  and  he  had  thought  at  first,  for  that  reason,  that  she 
looked  ill.  She  was  even  differently  dressed,  in  something 
dark  and  girlish  with  a  boyish  white  Eton  collar. 

"I  wonder  if  you  think  I'm  hiding,  Clay,"  she  said,  finally. 

"Well,  what  are  you  doing?"  He  smiled  down  at  her  from 
the  hearth-rug. 

"Paying  my  bills !  That's  not  all  the  truth,  either.  I'll  tell 
you,  Clay.  I  just  got  sick  of  it  all.  When  Chris  left  I  had  a 
chance  to  burn  my  bridges  and  I  burned  them.  The  same  peo 
ple,  the  same  talk,  the  same  food,  the  same  days  filled  with 
the  same  silly  things  that  took  all  my  time  and  gave  me 
nothing." 

"How  long  had  you  been  feeling  like  that  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Ever  since  the  war,  I  suppose.  I  just  got 
to  thinking " 

Her  voice  trailed  off. 

"I  have  some  of  Chris's  Scotch,  if  you  want  a  high-ball." 

"Thanks,  no.    Audrey,  do  you  hear  from  Chris?" 

"Yes.  He's  in  a  dangerous  place  now,  and  sometimes  at 

night I  suppose  I  did  force  him,  in  a  way.  He  was  doing 

no  good  here,  and  I  thought  he  would  find  himself  over  there. 
But  I  didn't  send  him.  He Tell  me  about  making  shells." 

He  was  a  little  bit  disappointed.  Evidently  she  did  not  de 
pend  on  him  enough  to  tell  him  Chris's  story.  But  again,  she 
was  being  loyal  to  Chris. 

He  told  her  about  the  mill,  phrasing  his  explanation  in  the 
Simplest  language ;  the  presses  drilling  on  white-hot  metal ;  the 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 99 

great  anvils ;  the  forge ;  the  machine-shop,  with  its  lathes, 
where  the  rough  surfaces  of  the  shells  were  first  rough- turned 
and  then  machined  to  the  most  exact  measurements.  And  find 
ing  her  interested,  he  told  her  of  England's  women  workers,  in 
their  khaki-colored  overalls  and  caps,  and  of  the  convent- 
like  silence  and  lack  of  movement  in  the  filling-sheds,  where 
one  entered  with  rubber-shod  feet,  and  the  women,  silent  and 
intent,  sat  all  day  and  all  night,  with  queer  veils  over  their 
faces,  filling  shells  with  the  death  load. 

Audrey  listened,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head. 

"If  other  women  can  do  that  sort  of  thing,  why  can't  I, 
Clay?" 

"Nonsense." 

"But  why?    I'm  intelligent." 

"It's  not  work  for  a  lady." 

"Lady!  How  old-fashioned  you  are!  There  are  no  ladies 
any  more.  Just  women.  And  if  we  aren't  measured  by  our 
usefulness  instead  of  our  general  not-worth-a-damn-ness,  well, 
we  ought  to  be.  Oh,  I've  had  time  to  think,  lately." 

He  was  hardly  listening.  Seeing  her,  after  all  those  weeks, 
had  brought  him  a  wonderful  feeling  of  peace.  The  little 
room,  with  its  fire,  was  cozy  and  inviting.  But  he  was  quite 
sure,  looking  down  at  her,  that  he  was  not  in  danger  of  falling 
in  love  with  her.  There  was  no  riot  in  him,  no  faint  stirring 
of  the  emotions  of  that  hour  with  the  mauve  book. 

There  was  no  suspicion  in  him  that  the  ways  of  love  change 
with  the  years,  that  the  passions  of  the  forties,  when  they  come, 
are  to  those  of  the  early  years  as  the  deep  sea  to  a  shallow 
lake,  less  easily  roused,  infinitely  more  terrible. 

"This  girl  you  spoke  about,  that  was  the  business  you  men 
tioned?" 

"Yes."  She  hesitated.  "I  could  have  asked  you  that  over 
the  telephone,  couldn't  I?  The  plain  truth  is  that  I've  had 
two  bad  months — never  mind  why,  and  Christmas  was  coming, 
and — I  just  wanted  to  see  your  perfectly  sane  and  normal 
face  again." 


ioo DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  know  sooner  where  you  were." 

She  evaded  his  eyes. 

"I  was  getting  settled,  and  studying,  and  learning  to  knit, 
and — oh,  I'm  the  most  wretched  knitter,  Clay!  I  just  stick  at 
it  doggedly.  I  say  to  myself  that  hands  that  can  play  golf, 
and  use  a  pen,  and  shoot,  and  drive  a  car,  have  got  to  learn 
to  knit.  But  look  here!" 

She  held  up  a  forlorn  looking  sock  to  his  amused  gaze.  "And 
I  think  I'm  a  clever  woman." 

"You're  a  very  brave  woman,  Audrey,"  he  said.  "You'll  let 
me  come  back,  won't  you  ?" 

"Heavens,  yes.  Whenever  you  like.  And  I'm  going  to  stop, 
being  a  recluse.  I  just  wanted  to  think  over  some  things." 

On  the  way  home  he  stopped  at  his  florist's,  and  ordered  a 
mass  of  American  beauties  for  her  on  Christmas  morning. 
She  had  sent  her  love  to  Natalie,  so  that  night  he  told  Natalie 
he  had  seen  her,  and  such  details  of  her  life  as  he  knew. 

"I'm  glad  she's  coming  to  her  senses,"  Natalie  said.  "Every 
thing's  been  deadly  dull  without  her.  She  always  made  things 
go — I  don't  know  just  how,"  she  added,  as  if  she  had  been 
turning  her  over  in  her  mind.  "What  sort  of  business  did  she 
want  to  see  you  about?" 

"She  has  a  girl  she  wants  to  get  into  the  mill." 

"Good  gracious,  she  must  be  changed,"  said  Natalie.  And 
proceeded — she  was  ready  to  go  out  to  dinner — to  one  of  her 
long  and  critical  surveys  of  herself  in  the  cheval  mirror.  Re 
cently  those  surveys  had  been  rather  getting  on  Clayton's 
nerves.  She  customarily  talked,  not  to  him,  but  to  his  reflec 
tion  over  her  shoulder,  when,  indeed,  she  took  her  eyes  from 
herself. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  fussing  with  a  shoulder-strap,  "who 
Audrey  will  marry  if  anything  happens  to  Chris  ?" 

She  saw  his  face  and  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"You  needn't  scowl  like  that.  He's  quite  as  likely  as  not 
never  to  come  back,  isn't  he?  And  Audrey  didn't  care  a 
pin  for  him." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  101 


"We're  talking  rather  lightly  of  a  very  terribic  thing,  aren  i 
we?" 

"Oh,  you're  not,"  she  retorted.  "You  think  just  the  same 
things  as  I  do,  but  you're  not  so  open  about  them.  That's 
all." 


CHAPTER  XI 

GRAHAM  was  engaged.  He  hardly  knew  himself  how  it 
had  come  about.  His  affair  with  Marion  had  been,  up  to 
the  very  moment  of  his  blurted-out  "I  want  you,"  as  light- 
hearted  as  that  of  any  of  the  assorted  young  couples  who 
flirted  and  kissed  behind  the  closed  doors  of  that  popular 
house. 

The  crowd  which  frequented  the  Hayden  home  was  gay, 
tolerant  and  occasionally  nasty.  It  made  ardent  love  semi- 
promiscuously,  it  drank  rather  more  than  it  should,  and  its 
desire  for  a  good  time  of^en  brought  it  rather  close  to  the 
danger  line.  It  did  not  actually  step  over,  but  it  hovered 
gayly  on  the  brink. 

And  Toots  remained  high-priestess  of  her  little  cult.  The 
men  liked  her.  The  girls  imitated  her.  And  Graham,  young 
as  he  was,  seeing  her  popularity,  was  vastly  gratified  to  find 
himself  standing  high  in  her  favor. 

Marion  was  playing  for  the  stake  of  the  Spencer  money. 
In  her  intimate  circle  every  one  knew  it  but  Graham. 

"How's  every  little  millionaire?"  was  Tommy  Hale's  usual 
greeting. 

She  knew  only  one  way  to  handle  men,  and  with  the  stake 
of  the  Spencer  money  she  tried  every  lure  of  her  experience  on 
Graham.  It  was  always  Marion  who  on  cold  nights  sat  hud 
dled  against  him  in  the  back  seat  of  the  Hayden's  rather 
shabby  car,  her  warm  ungloved  hand  in  his.  It  was  Marion 
who  taught  him  to  mix  the  newest  of  cocktails,  and  who  later 
praised  his  skill.  It  was  Marion  who  insisted  on  his  having  a 
third,  too,  when  the  second  had  already  set  his  ears  drumming. 

The  effect  on  the  boy  of  her  steady  propinquity,  of  her 
constant  caressing  touches,  of  the  general  letting-down  of  the 

102 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 103 

bars  of  restraint,  was  to  rouse  in  him  impulses  of  which  he 
was  only  vaguely  conscious,  and  his  proposal  of  marriage, 
when  it  finally  came,  was  by  nature  of  a  confession.  He  had 
kissed  her,  not  for  the  first  time,  but  this  time  she  had  let  him 
hold  her,  and  he  had  rained  kisses  on  her  face. 

"I  want  you,"  he  had  said,  huskily. 

And  even  afterward,  when  the  thing  was  done,  and  she  had 
said  she  would  marry  him,  she  had  to  ask  him  if  he  loved  her. 

"I — of  course  I  do,"  he  had  said.  And  had  drawn  her  back 
into  his  arms. 

He  wanted  to  marry  her  at  once.  It  was  the  strongest  urge 
of  his  life,  and  put  into  his  pleading  an  almost  pathetic  earnest 
ness.  But  she  was  firm  enough  now. 

"I  don't  think  your  family  will  be  crazy  about  this,  you 
know." 

"What  do  we  care  for  the  family?  They're  not  marrying 
you,  are  they?" 

"They  will  have  to  help  to  support  me,  won't  they  ?" 

And  he  had  felt  a  trifle  chilled. 

It  was  not  a  part  of  Marion's  program  to  enter  the  Spencer 
family  unwelcomed.  She  had  a  furtive  fear  of  Clayton 
Spencer,  the  fear  of  the  indirect  for  the  direct,  of  the  design 
ing  woman  for  the  essentially  simple  and  open  male.  It  was 
not  on  her  cards  to  marry  Graham  and  to  try  to  live  on  hi? 
salary. 

So  for  a  few  weeks  the  engagement  was  concealed  even 
from  Mrs.  Hayden,  and  Graham,  who  had  received  some  stock 
from  his  father  on  his  twenty-first  birthday,  secretly  sold  » 
few  shares  and  bought  the  engagement  ring.  With  that  Mar 
ion  breather  easier.  It  was  absolute  evidence. 

Her  methods  were  the  methods  of  her  kind  and  her  time. 
To  allure  a  man  by  every  wile  she  knew,  and  having  won  him 
to  keep  him  uncertain  and  uneasy,  was  her  perfectly  simple 
creed.  So  she  reduced  love  to  its  cheapest  terms,  passion  and 
jealousy,  played  on  them  both,  and  made  Graham  alternately 
happy  and  wretched. 


104  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Once  he  found  Rodney  Page  there,  lounging  about  with  the 
manner  of  a  habitue.  It  seemed  to  Graham  that  he  was  always 
stumbling  over  Rodney  those  days,  either  at  home,  with  draw 
ings  and  color  sketches  spread  out  before  him,  or  at  the  Hay- 
den  house. 

"What's  he  hanging  around  here  for  ?"  he  demanded  when 
Rodney,  having  bent  over  Marion's  hand  and  kissed  it,  had 
gone  away.  "If  he  could  see  that  bare  spot  on  the  top  of  his 
head  he'd  stop  all  that  kow-towing." 

"You're  being  rather  vulgar,  aren't  you?"  Marion  had  said. 
"He's  a  very  old  friend  and  a  very  dear  one." 

"Probably  in  love  with  you  once,  like  all  the  rest?" 

He  had  expected  denial  from  her,  but  she  had  held  her 
cigaret  up  in  the  air,  and  reflectively  regarded  its  small  gilt 
tip. 

"I'm  afraid  he's  rather  unhappy.    Poor  Rod !" 

"About  me?" 

"About  me." 

"Look  here,  Toots,"  he  burst  out.  "I'm  playing  square  with 
you.  I  never  go  anywhere  but  here.  I — I'm  perfectly  straight 
with  you.  But  every  time  here  I  find  some  of  your  old  guard 
hanging  round.  It  makes  me  wild." 

"They've  always  come  here,  and  as  long  as  our  engagement 
isn't  known,  I  can't  very  well  stop  them." 

"Then  let  me  go  to  father." 

"He'll  turn  you  out,  you  know.  I  know  men,  dear  old  thing, 
and  father  is  going  to  raise  a  merry  little  hell  about  us.  He's 
the  sort  who  wants  to  choose  his  son's  wife  for  him.  He'd 
like  to  play  Providence."  She  watched  him,  smiling,  but  with 
slightly  narrowed  eyes.  "I  rather  think  he  has  somebody  in 
mind  for  you  now." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

"Of  course  you  don't.    But  he  has." 

"Who?" 

"Delight.    She's  exactly  the  sort  he  thinks  you'll  need.    He 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 10$ 

still  thinks  you  are  a  little  boy,  Graham,  so  he  picks  out  a  nice 
little  girl  for  you.     Such  a  nice  little  girl." 

The  amused  contempt  in  her  voice  made  him  angry — for 
Delight  rather  than  himself.  He  was  extremely  grown-up 
and  dignified  the  rest  of  the  afternoon ;  he  stood  very  tall  and 
straight,  and  spoke  in  his  deepest  voice. 

It  became  rather  an  obsession  in  him  to  prove  his  man 
hood,  and  added  to  that  was  the  effect  of  Marion's  constant, 
insidious  appeal  to  the  surging  blood  of  his  youth.  And,  day 
after  day,  he  was  shut  in  his  office  with  Anna  Klein. 

He  thought  he  was  madly  in  love  with  Marion.  He  knew 
that  he  was  not  at  all  in  love  with  Anna  Klein.  But  she 
helped  to  relieve  the  office  tedium. 

He  was  often  aware,  sitting  at  his  desk,  with  Anna  before 
him,  notebook  in  hand,  that  while  he  read  his  letters  her  eyes 
were  on  him.  More  than  once  he  met  them,  and  there  was 
something  in  them  that  healed  his  wounded  vanity.  He  was 
a  man  to  her.  He  was  indeed  almost  a  god,  but  that  he  did 
not  know.  In  his  present  frame  of  mind,  he  would  have  ac 
cepted  even  that,  however. 

Then,  one  day  he  kissed  her.  She  was  standing  very  close, 
and  the  impulse  was  quick  and  irresistible.  She  made  no 
effort  to  leave  his  arms,  and  he  kissed  her  again. 

"Like  me  a  little,  do  you?"  he  had  asked,  smiling  into  her 
eyes. 

"Oh,  I  do,  I  do !"  she  had  replied,  hoarsely. 

It  was  almost  an  exact  reversal  of  his  relationship  with 
Marion.  There  the  huskiness  was  his,  the  triumphant  smile 
was  Marion's.  And  the  feeling  of  being  adored  without  stint 
or  reservation  warmed  him. 

He  released  her  then,  but  their  relationship  had  taken  on  a 
new  phase.  He  would  stand  against  the  outer  door,  to  prevent 
its  sudden  opening.  And  she  would  walk  toward  him,  fright 
ened  and  helpless  until  his  arms  closed  about  her.  It  was  en 
tirely  a  game  to  him.  There  were  days,  when  Marion  was 
trying,  or  the  work  of  his  department  was  nagging  him,  when 


io6 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

he  scarcely  noticed  her  at  all.  But  again  the  mischief  in  him, 
the  idler,  the  newly  awakened  hunting  male,  took  him  to  her 
with  arms  outheld  and  the  look  of  triumph  in  his  eyes  that  she 
mistook  for  love. 

On  one  such  occasion  Joey  came  near  to  surprising  a  situa 
tion,  so  near  that  his  sophisticated  young  mind  guessed  rather 
more  than  the  truth.  He  went  out,  whistling. 

He  waited  until  Graham  had  joined  the  office  force  in  the 
jnill  lunchroom,  and  invented  an  errand  back  to  Graham's 
office.  Anna  was  there,  powdering  her  nose  with  the  aid  of 
B  mirror  fastened  inside  her  purse. 

Joey  had  adopted  Clayton  with  a  sort  of  fierce  passion,  hid 
den  behind  a  pose  of  patronage. 

k  "He's  all  right/'  he  would  say  to  the  boys  gathered  at  noon 
in  the  mill  yard.  "He's  kinda  short-tempered  sometimes, 
but  me,  I  understand  him.  And  there  ain't  many  of  these 
here  money  kings  that  would  sit  up  in  a  hospital  the  way  he 
did  with  me." 

The  mill  yard  had  had  quite  enough  of  that  night  in  the 
hospital.  It  would  fall  on  him  in  one  of  those  half-playful, 
half-vicious  attacks  that  are  the  humor  of  the  street,  and  some 
times  it  was  rather  a  battered  Joey  who  returned  to  Clayton's 
handsome  office,  to  assist  him  in  running  the  mill. 

But  it  was  a  very  cool  and  slightly  scornful  Joey  who  con 
fronted  Anna  that  noon  hour.  He  lost  no  time  in  prelimi 
naries. 

"What  do  you  think  you're  doing,  anyhow  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Powdering  my  nose,  if  you  insist  on  knowing." 

They  spoke  the  same  language.  Anna  knew  what  was  com 
ing,  and  was  on  guard  instantly. 

"You  cut  it  out,  that's  all." 

"You  cut  out  of  this  office.    And  that's  all." 

Joey  sat  down  on  Graham's  desk  and  folded  his  arms. 

"What  are  you  going  to  get  out  of  it,  anyhow?"  he  said 
with  a  shift  from  bullying  to  argument. 

"Out  of  what?" 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 107 

"You  know,  all  right." 

She  whirled  on  him. 

"Now  see  here,  Joey,"  she  said.  "You  run  out  and  play. 
I'll  not  have  any  little  boys  meddling  in  my  affairs." 

Joey  slid  off  the  desk  and  surveyed  her  with  an  impish  smile. 

"Your  affairs  !"  he  repeated.  "What  the  hell  do  I  care  about 
your  affairs?  I'm  thinking  of  the  boss.  It's  up  to  him  if  he 
wants  to  keep  German  spies  on  the  place.  But  it's  up  to  some 
of  us  here  to  keep  our  eyes  open,  so  that  they  don't  do  any 
harm." 

Sheer  outrage  made  Anna's  face  pale.  She  had  known  for 
some  time  that  the  other  girls  kept  away  from  her,  and  she 
had  accepted  it  with  the  stolidity  of  her  blood.  She  had  no 
German  sympathies;  her  sympathies  in  the  war  lay  nowhere. 

But — she  a  spy ! 

"You  get  out  of  here,"  she  said  furiously,  "or  I'll  go  to  Mr. 
Spencer  and  complain  about  you.  I'm  no  more  a  spy  than  you 
are.  Not  as  much! — the  way  you  come  sneaking  around  lis 
tening  and  watching!  Now  you  get  out." 

And  Joey  had  gone,  slowly  to  show  that  the  going  was  of 
his  own  free  well,  and  whistling.  He  went  out  and  closed 
the  door.  Then  he  opened  it  and  stuck  his  head  in. 

"You  be  good,"  he  volunteered,  "and  when  the  little  old 
U.  S.  gets  to  mixing  up  with  the  swine  over  there,  I'll  bring 
you  a  nice  fat  Hun  as  a  present" 


CHAPTER  XII 

TWO  days  before  Christmas  Delight  came  out    There  was 
an  afternoon  reception  at  the  rectory,  and  the  plain  old 
house  blossomed  with  the  debutante's  bouquets  and  baskets  of 
flowers. 

For  weeks  before  the  house  had  been  getting  ready.  The 
rector,  looking  about  for  his  accustomed  d^ir,  had  been  told 
it  was  at  the  upholsterer's,  or  had  found  his  beloved  and  rag 
ged  old  books  relegated  to  dark  corners  of  the  bookcases. 
There  were  always  stepladders  on  the  landings,  and  paper- 
hangers  waiting  until  a  man  got  out  of  bed  in  the  morning. 
And  once  he  put  his  ecclesiastical  heel  in  a  pail  of  varnish, 
and  slid  down  an  entire  staircase,  to  the  great  imperilment  of 
his  kindly  old  soul. 

But  he  had  consented  without  demur  to  the  coming-out 
party,  and  he  had  taken,  during  all  the  morning  of  the  great 
day,  a  most  mundane  interest  in  the  boxes  of  flowers  that  came 
in  every  few  minutes.  He  stood  inside  a  window,  under  pre 
tense  of  having  no  place  to  sit  down,  and  called  out  regu 
larly, 

"Six  more  coming,  mother!  And  a  boy  with  three  ringing 
across  the  street.  I  think  he's  made  a  mistake.  Yes,  he  has. 
He's  coming  over!" 

When  all  the  stands  and  tables  were  overflowing,  the  bou 
quets  were  hung  to  the  curtains  in  the  windows.  And  De 
light,  taking  a  last  survey,  from  the  doorway,  expressed  her 
satisfaction. 

"It's  heavenly,"  she  said.  "Imagine  all  those  flowers  for 
me.  It  looks" — she  squinted  up  her  eyes  critically — "it  looks 
precisely  like  a  highly  successful  funeral." 

But  a  part  of  her  satisfaction  was  pure  pose,  for  the  benefit 

108 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 109 

of  that  kindly  pair  who  loved  her  so.  Alone  in  her  room, 
dressed  to  go  down-stairs,  Delight  drew  a  long  breath  and 
picked  up  her  flowers  which  Clayton  Spencer  had  sent.  It 
had  been  his  kindly  custom  for  years  to  send  to  each  little 
debutante,  as  she  made  her  bow,  a  great  armful  of  white 
lilacs  and  trailing  tiny  white  rosebuds. 

"Fifty  dollars,  probably,"  Delight  reflected.  "And  the  Bel 
gians  needing  flannels.  It's  dreadful." 

Her  resentment  against  Graham  was  dying.  After  all,  he 
was  only  a  child  in  Toots  Hayden's  hands.  And  she  made  one 
of  those  curious  "He-loves-me-he-loves-me-not"  arrangements 
in  her  own  mind.  If  Graham  came  that  afternoon,  she  would 
take  it  as  a  sign  that  there  was  still  some  good  in  him,  and 
she  would  try  to  save  him  from  himself.  She  had  been  rather 
nasty  to  him.  If  he  did  not  come 

A  great  many  came,  mostly  women,  with  a  sprinkling  of 
men.  The  rector,  who  loved  people,  was  in  his  element.  He 
was  proud  of  Delight,  proud  of  his  home ;  he  had  never  ceased 
being  proud  of  his  wife.  He  knew  who  exactly  had  sent 
each  basket  of  flowers,  each  hanging  bunch.  "Your  exquisite 
orchids,"  he  would  say;  or,  "that  perfectly  charming  basket. 
It  is  there,  just  beside  Mrs.  Haverford." 

But  when  Natalie  Spencer  came  in  alone,  splendid  in  Rus 
sian  sables,  'he  happened  to  be  looking  at  Delight,  and  he  saw 
the  light  die  out  of  her  eyes. 

Natalie  had  tried  to  bring  Graham  with  her.  She  had  gone 
into  his  room  that  morning  while  he  was  dressing  and  asked 
him.  To  tell  the  truth,  she  was  uneasy  about  Marion  Hayden 
and  his  growing  intimacy  there. 

"You  will,  won't  you,  Graham,  dear?" 

"Sorry,  mother.    I  just  can't.    I'm  taking  a  girl  out." 

"I  suppose  it's  Marion." 

Her  tone  caused  him  to  turn  and  look  at  her. 

"Yes,  it's  Marion.     What's  wrong  with  that?" 

"It's  so  silly,  Graham.  She's  older  than  you  are.  And  she's 
not  really  nice,  Graham.  I  don't  mean  anything  horrid,  but 


m> DANGEROUS  DAYS 

she's  designing.  She  knows  you  are  young  and — well,  she's 
just  playing  with  you.  I  know  girls,  Graham.  I " 

She  stopped,  before  his  angry  gaze. 

"She  is  nice  enough  for  you*  to  ask  here,"  he  said  hastily. 

"She  wants  your  money.    That's  all." 

He  had  laughed  then,  an  ugly  laugh. 

"There's  a  lot  of  it  for  her  to  want." 

And  Natalie  had  gone  away  to  shed  tears  of  fury  and  re 
sentment  in  her  own  room. 

She  was  really  frightened.  Bills  for  flowers  sent  to  Marion 
were  coming  in,  to  lie  unpaid  on  Graham's  writing  table.  She 
had  over-drawn  once  again  to  pay  them,  and  other  bills,  for 
theater  tickets,  checks  signed  at  restaurants,  over-due  club 
accounts. 

So  she  went  to  the  Haverfords  alone,  and  managed  very 
effectually  to  snub  Mrs.  Hayden  before  the  rector's  very  eyes. 

Mrs.  Hayden  thereupon  followed  an  impulse. 

"If  it  were  not  for  Natalie  Spencer,"  she  siid,  following 
that  lady's  sables  with  malevolent  eyes,  "I  should  be  very 
happy  in  something  I  want  to  tell  you.  Car  v/e  find  a  corner 
somewhere  ?" 

And  Doctor  Haverford  had  followed  her  uneasily,  behind 
some  palms.  She  was  a  thin  little  woman  with  a  maddening 
habit  of  drawing  her  tight  veil  down  even  closer  by  a  contor 
tion  of  her  lower  jaw,  so  that  the  rector  found  himself  watch 
ing  her  chin  rather  than  her  eyes. 

"I  want  you  to  know  right  away,  as  Marion's  clergyman,  and 
ours,"  she  had  said,  and  had  given  her  jaw  a  particularly 
vicious  wag  and  twist.  "Of  course  it  is  not  announced — I 
don't  believe  even  the  Spencers  know  it  yet.  I  am  only  telling 
you  now  because  I  know  how  dearly" — she  did  it  again — "how 
dearly  interested  you  are  in  all  your  spiritual  children.  Marion 
is  engaged  to  Graham  Spencer." 

The  rector  had  not  been  a  shining  light  for  years  without 
learning  how  to  control  his  expression.  He  had  a  second,  too, 
while  she  contorted  her  face  again,  to  recover  himself. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 111 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  gravely.  "I  much  appreciate  your 
telling  me." 

Mrs.  Hayden  had  lowered  her  voice  still  more.  The  revela 
tion  took  on  the  appearance  of  conspiracy. 

"In  the  early  spring,  probably,"  she  said,  "we  shall  need 
your  services,  and  your  blessing." 

So  that  was  the  end  of  one  dream.  He  had  dreamed  so 
many — in  his  youth,  of  spiritualizing  his  worldly  flock;  in 
middle  life,  of  a  bishopric;  he  had  dreamed  of  sons,  to  carry 
on  the  name  he  ha:!  meant  to  make  famous.  But  the  failures 
of  those  dreams  had  been  at  once  his  own  failure  and  his  own 
disappointment.  This  was  different. 

He  was  profoundly  depressed.  He  wandered  out  of  the 
crowd  and,  after  colliding  with  a  man  from  the  caterer's  in  a 
dark  rear  hall,  found  his  way  up  the  servant's  staircase  to  the 
small  back  room  where  he  kept  the  lares  and  penates  of  his 
quiet  life,  his  pipe,  his  fishing  rods,  a  ?Havov  old  smoking  coat, 
and  back  files  of  magazines  which  he  intended  some  day  to 
read,  when  he  got  round  to  it. 

The  little  room  was  jammed  with  old  furniture,  stripped 
from  the  lower  floor  to  make  room  for  the  crowd.  He  had  to 
get  down  on  his  knees  and  crawl  under  a  table  to  reach  his 
pipe.  But  he  achieved  it  finally,  still  with  an  air  of  abstrac 
tion,  and  lighted  it.  Then,  as  there  was  no  place  to  sit  down, 
he  stood  in  the  center  of  the  little  room  and  thought. 

He  did  not  go  down  again.  He  heard  the  noise  of  the  ar 
riving  and  departing  motors  subside,  its  replacement  by  the 
sound  of  clattering  china,  being  washed  below  in  the  pantry. 
He  went  down  finally,  to  be  served  with  a  meal  largely  sup 
plemented  by  the  left-overs  of  the  afternoon  refreshments, 
ornate  salads,  fancy  ices,  and  an  overwhelming  table  decora 
tion  that  shut  him  off  from  his  wife  and  Delight,  and  left  him 
in  magnificent  solitude  behind  a  pyramid  of  flowers. 

Bits  of  the  afternoon's  gossip  reached  him ;  the  comments  on 
Delight's  dress  and  her  flowers;  the  reasons  certain  people 


ii2 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

had  not  come.     But  nothing  of  the  subject  nearest  his  heart. 

At  the  end  of  the  meal  Delight  got  up. 

"I'm  going  to  call  up  Mr.  Spencer/'  she  said.  "He  has  about 
fifty  dollars'  worth  of  thanks  coming  to  him." 

"I  didn't  see  Graham,"  said  Mrs.  Haverford.  "Was  he 
here?" 

Delight  stood  poised  for  flight. 

"He  couldn't  come  because  he  had  enough  to  do  being  two 
places  at  once.  His  mother  said  he  >vas  working,  and  Mrs. 
Hayden  said  he  had  taken  Marion  to  the  Country  Club.  I 
don't  know  why  they  take  the  trouble  to  lie  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CHRISTMAS  day  of  the  year  of  our  Lord,  1916,  dawned 
v>  on  a  world  which  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  Man  of 
Peace.  In  Asia  Minor  the  Allies  celebrated  it  by  the  capture 
of  a  strong  Turkish  position  at  Maghdadah.  The  Germans 
spent  it  concentrating  at  Dead  Man's  Hill;  the  British  were 
ejected  from  enemy  positions  near  Arras.  There  was  no 
Christmas  truce.  The  death-grip  had  come. 

Germany,  conscious  of  her  superiority  in  men,  and  her  hypo 
critical  peace  offers  unanimously  rejected,  was  preparing  to 
free  herself  from  the  last  restraint  of  civilization  and  to  begin 
unrestricted  submarine  warfare. 

On  Christmas  morning  Clayton  received  a  letter  from  Chris. 
Evidently  it  had  come  by  hand,  for  it  was  mailed  in  America. 

"Dear  Clay:  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  you  will  care  to  hear 
from  me.  In  fact,  I  have  tried  two  or  three  times  to  write  to 
you,  and  have  given  it  up.  But  I  am  lonelier  than  Billy-be- 
damned,  and  if  it  were  not  for  Audrey's  letters  I  wouldn't 
care  which  shell  got  me  and  my  little  cart. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  know  why  I  got  out,  or  not. 
Perhaps  you  don't.  I'd  been  a  fool  and  a  scoundrel,  and  I've 
had  time,  between  fusses,  to  know  just  how  rotten  I've  been. 
But  I'm  not  going  to  whine  to  you.  What  I  am  trying  to  get 
over  is  that  I'm  through  with  the  old  stuff  for  good. 

"God  only  knows  why  I  am  writing  to  you,  anyhow — unless 
it  is  because  I've  always  thought  you  were  pretty  near  right. 
And  I'd  like  to  feel  that  now  and  then  you  are  seeing  Audrey, 
and  bucking  her  up  a  bit.  I  think  she's  rather  down. 

"Do  you  know,  Clay,  I  think  this  is  a  darned  critical  time. 
The  press  hasn't  got  it  yet,  but  both  the  British  and  the  French 


ii4 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

are  hard  up  against  it.  They'll  fight  until  there  is  no  one  left 
to  fight,  but  these  damned  Germans  seem  to  have  no  breaking- 
point.  They  haven't  any  temperament,  I  daresay,  or  maybe 
it  is  soul  they  lack.  But  they'll  fight  to  the  last  man  also,  and 
the  plain  truth  is  that  there  are  too  many  of  them. 

"It  looks  mighty  bad,  unless  we  come  in.  And  I  don't  mind 
saying  that  there  are  a  good  many  eyes  over  here  straining 
across  the  old  Atlantic.  Are  we  doing  anything,  I  wonder? 
Getting  ready?  The  officers  here  say  we  can't -expand  an  army 
to  get  enough  men  without  a  draft  law.  Can  you  see  the  ad 
ministration  endangering  the  next  election  with  a  draft  law? 
Not  on  your  life. 

"I'm  on  the  wagon,  Clay.  Honestly,  it's  funny.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  I'm  darned  miserable  sometimes.  But  then 
I  get  busy,  and  I'm  so  blooming  glad  in  a  rush  to  get  water 
that  doesn't  smell  to  heaven  that  I  don't  want  anything  else. 

"I  suppose  they'll  give  us  a  good  hate  on  Christmas.  Well, 
think  of  me  sometimes  when  you  sit  down  to  dinner,  and  you 
might  drink  to  our  coming  in.  If  we  have  a  principle  to  divide 
among  us  we  shall  have  to." 

Clayton  read  the  letter  twice. 

He  and  Natalie  lunched  alone,  Natalie  in  radiant  good 
humor.  His  gift  to  her  had  been  a  high  collar  of  small  dia 
monds  magnificently  set,  and  Natalie,  whose  throat  commenced 
to  worry  her,  had  welcomed  it  rapturously.  Also,  he  had  that 
morning  notified  Graham  that  his  salary  had  been  raised  to 
five  thousand  dollars. 

Graham  had  shown  relief  rather  than  pleasure. 

"I  daresay  I  won't  earn  it,  Father,"  he  had  said.  "But  I'll 
at  least  try  to  keep  out  of  debt  on  it." 

"If  you  can't,  better  let  me  be  your  banker,  Graham." 

The  boy  had  flushed.  Then  he  had  disappeared,  as  usual, 
and  Clayton  and  Natalie  sat  across  from  each  other,  in  their 
high-armed  lion  chairs,  and  made  a  pretense  of  Christmas 
gayety.  True  to  Natalie's  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  a  small 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 115 

Nuremberg  Christmas  tree,  hung  with  tiny  toys  and  lighted 
with  small  candles,  stood  in  the  center  of  the  table. 

"We  are  dining  out,"  she  explained.  "So  I  thought  we'd 
use  it  now." 

"It's  very  pretty,"  Clayton  acknowledged.  And  he  wondered 
if  Natalie  felt  at  all  as  he  did,  the  vast  room  and  the  two  men 
serving,  with  Graham  no  one  knew  where,  and  that  travesty 
of  Christmas  joy  between  them.  His  mind  wandered  to  long 
ago  Christmases. 

"It's  not  so  very  long  since  we  had  a  real  tree,"  he  observed. 
"Do  you  remember  the  one  that  fell  and  smashed  all  the  things 
on  it?  And  how  Graham  heard  it  and  came  down?" 

"Horribly  messy  things,"  said  Natalie,  and  watched  the 
second  man  critically.  He  was  new,  and  she  decided  he  was 
awkward. 

She  chattered  through  the  meal,  however,  with  that  light 
gayety  of  hers  which  was  not  gayety  at  all,  and  always  of  the 
country  house. 

"The  dining-room  floor  is  to  be  oak,  with  a  marble  border," 
she  said.  "You  remember  the  ones  we  saw  in  Italy  ?  And  the 
ceiling  is  blue  and  gold.  You'll  love  the  ceiling,  Clay." 

There  was  claret  with  the  luncheon,  and  Clayton,  raising  his 
glass,  thought  of  Chris  and  the  water  that  smelled  to  heaven. 

Natalie's  mind  was  on  loggias  by  that  time. 

"An  upstairs  loggia,  too,"  she  said.  "Bordered  with  red 
geraniums.  I  loathe  geraniums,  but  the  color  is  good.  Rod 
ney  wants  Japanese  screens  and  things,  but  I'm  not  sure. 
What  do  you  think?" 

"I  think  you're  a  better  judge  than  I  am,"  he  replied,  smil 
ing.  He  had  had  to  come  back  a  long  way,  but  he  made  the 
effort. 

"It's  hardly  worth  while  struggling  to  have  things  attrac 
tive  for  you,"  she  observed  petulantly.  "You  never  notice, 
anyhow.  Clay,  do  you  know  that  you  sit  hours  and  hours,  and 
never  talk  to  me?" 

"No!    Do  I?    I'm  sorry." 


u6  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"You're  a  perfectly  dreary  person  to  have  around." 

"I'll  talk  to  you,  my  dear.  But  I'm  not  much  good  at  houses. 
Give  me  something  I  understand." 

"The  mill,  I  suppose !    Or  the  war !" 

"Do  I  really  talk  of  the  war?" 

"When  you  talk  at  all.  What  in  the  world  do  you  think 
about,  Clay,  when  you  sit  with  your  eyes  on  nothing?  It's  a 
vicious  habit." 

"Oh,  ships  and  sails  and  sealing  wax  and  cabbages  and 
kings,"  he  said,  lightly. 

That  afternoon  Natalie  slept,  and  the  house  took  on  the 
tomb-like  quiet  of  an  establishment  where  the  first  word  in 
service  is  silence.  Clay  wandered  about,  feeling  an  inex 
pressible  loneliness  of  spirit.  On  those  days  which  work  did 
not  fill  he  was  always  discontented.  He  thought  of  the  club, 
but  the  vision  of  those  disconsolate  groups  of  homeless  bache 
lors  who  gathered  there  on  all  festivals  that  centered  about  a 
family  focus  was  unattractive. 

All  at  once,  he  realized  that,  since  he  had  wakened  that 
morning,  he  had  been  wanting  to  see  Audrey.  He  wanted  to 
talk  to  her,  real  talk,  not  gossip.  Not  country  houses.  Not 
personalities.  Not  recrimination.  Such  talk  as  Audrey  her 
self  had  always  led  at  dinner  parties:  of  men  and  affairs,  of 
big  issues,  of  the  war. 

He  felt  suddenly  that  he  must  talk  about  the  war  to  some 
one. 

Natalie  was  still  sleeping  when  he  went  down-stairs.  It  had 
been  raining,  but  a  cold  wind  was  covering  the  pavement  with 
a  glaze  of  ice.  Here  and  there  men  in  top  hats,  like  himself, 
were  making  their  way  to  Christinas  calls.  Children  clinging 
to  the  arms  of  governesses,  their  feet  in  high  arctics,  slid 
laughing  on  the  ice.  A  belated  florist's  wagon  was  still  deliv 
ering  Christmas  plants  tied  with  bright  red  bows.  The  street 
held  more  of  festivity  to  Clayton  than  had  his  house.  Even 
the  shop  windows,  as  he  walked  toward  Audrey's  unfashion- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 117 

able  new  neighborhood,  cried  out  their  message  of  peace. 
Peace — when  there  was  no  peace. 

Audrey  was  alone,  but  her  little  room  was  crowded  with 
gifts  and  flowers. 

"I  was  hoping  you  would  come,  Clay,"  she  said.  "I've  had 
some  visitors,  but  they're  gone.  I'll  tell  them  down-stairs  that 
I'm  not  at  home,  and  we  can  really  talk." 

"That's  what  I  came  for." 

And  when  she  had  telephoned;  "I've  had  a  letter  from  Chris, 
Audrey." 

She  read  it  slowly,  and  he  was  surprised,  when  she  finally 
looked  up,  to  find  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Poor  old  Chris !"  she  said.  "I've  never  told  you  the  story, 
have  I,  Clay?  Of  course  I  know  perfectly  well  I  haven't. 
There  was  another  woman.  I  think  I  could  have  understood 
it,  perhaps,  if  she  had  been  a  different  sort  of  a  woman.  But 
— I  suppose  it  hurt  my  pride.  I  didn't  love  him.  She  was 
such  a  vulgar  little  thing.  Not  even  pretty.  Just — woman." 

He  nodded. 

"He  was  fastidious,  too.  I  don't  understand  it.  And  he 
swears  he  never  cared  for  her.  I  don't  believe  he  did,  either. 
I  suppose  there's  no  explanation  for  these  things.  They  just 
happen.  It's  the  life  we  live,  I  dare  say.  When  I  look 
back She's  the  girl  I  sent  into  the  mill." 

He  was  distinctly  shocked. 

"But,  Audrey,"  he  protested,  "you  are  not  seeing  her,  are 
you  ?" 

"Now  and  then.  She  has  fastened  herself  on  me,  in  a  way. 
Don't  scowl  like  that.  She  says  she  is  straight  now  and  that 
she  only  wants  a  chance  to  work.  She's  off  the  stage  for  good. 
She — danced.  That  money  I  got  from  you  was  for  her.  She 
was  waiting,  up-stairs.  Chris  was  behind  with  her  rent,  and 
she  was  going  to  lose  her  furniture." 

"That  you  should  have  to  do  such  a  thing!"  he  protested. 
"It's— well,  it's  infamous." 

But  she  only  smiled. 


ii8 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Well,  I've  never  been  particularly  shielded.  It  hasn't  hurt 
me.  I  don't  even  hate  her.  But  I'm  puzzled  sometimes. 
Where  there's  love  it  might  be  understandable.  Most  of  us 
would  hate  to  have  to  stand  the  test  of  real  love,  I  daresay. 
There's  a  time  in  every  one's  life,  I  suppose,  when  love  seems 
to  be  the  only  thing  that  matters." 

That  was  what  the  poet  in  that  idiotic  book  had  said :  "There 
is  no  other  joy." 

"Even  you,  Clay,"  she  reflected,  smilingly.  "You  big,  grave 
men  go  all  to  pieces,  sometimes." 

"I  never  have,"  he  retorted. 

She  returned  Chris's  letter  to  him. 

"There,"  she  said.  "I've  had  my  little  whimper,  and  I  feel 
better.  Now  talk  to  me." 

The  little  clock  was  striking  six  when  at  last  he  rose  to  go. 
The  room  was  dark,  with  only  the  glow  of  the  wood  fire  on 
Audrey's  face.  He  found  her  very  lovely,  rather  chastened 
and  subdued,  but  much  more  appealing  than  in  her  old  days 
of  sparkle  and  high  spirits. 

"You  are  looking  very  sweet,  Audrey." 

"Am  I  ?    How  nice  of  you !" 

She  got  up  and  stood  on  the  hearth-rug  beside  him,  looking 
up  at  him.  Then,  "Don't  be  startled,  Clay,"  she  announced, 
smilingly.  "I  am  going  to  kiss  you — for  Christmas." 

And  kiss  him  she  did,  putting  both  hands  on  his  shoulders, 
and  rising  on  her  toes  to  do  it.  It  was  a  very  small  kiss,  and 
Clayton  took  it  calmly,  and  as  she  intended  him  to  take  it.  But 
it  was,  at  that,  rather  a  flushed  Audrey  who  bade  him  good 
night  and  God  bless  you. 

Clayton  took  away  with  him  from  that  visit  a  great  peace 
and  a  great  relief.  He  had  talked  out  to  her  for  more  than 
an  hour  of  the  many  things  that  puzzled  and  bewildered  him. 
He  had  talked  war,  and  the  mill,  and  even  Graham  and  his 
problems.  And  by  talking  of  them  some  of  them  had  clarified. 
A  little  of  his  unrest  had  gone.  He  felt  encouraged,  he  had 
a  new  strength  to  go  on.  It  was  wonderful,  he  reflected, 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 119 

what  the  friendship  of  a  woman  could  mean  to  a  man.  He 
was  quite  convinced  that  it  was  only  friendship. 

He  turned  toward  home  reluctantly.  Behind  him  was  the 
glow  of  Audrey's  fire,  and  the  glow  that  had  been  in  her  eyes 
when  he  entered.  If  a  man  had  such  a  woman  behind  him 

He  went  into  his  great,  silent  house,  and  the  door  closed  be 
hind  him  like  a  prison  gate. 

For  a  long  time  after  he  had  gone,  Audrey,  doors  closed  to 
visitors,  sat  alone  by  her  fire,  with  one  of  his  roses  held  close 
to  her  cheek. 

In  her  small  upper  room,  in  a  white  frame  cottage  on  the 
hill  overlooking  the  Spencer  furnaces,  Anna  Klein,  locked 
away  from  prying  eyes,  sat  that  same  Christmas  evening  and 
closely  inspected  a  tiny  gold  wrist- watch.  An  1  now  and  then, 
like  Audrey,  she  pressed  it  to  her  face. 

Not  the  gift,  but  the  giver. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HAVING  turned  Dunbar  and  his  protective  league  over 
to  Hutchinson,  the  general  manager,  Clayton  had  put 
him  out  of  his  mind.     But  during  the  week  after  Christmas 
he  reached  the  office  early  one  morning  to  find  that  keen  and 
rather  shabby  gentleman  already  there,  waiting. 

Not  precisely  waiting,  for  he  was  standing  by  one  of  the 
windows,  well  back  from  it,  and  inspecting  the  mill  yard  with 
sharp,  darting  glances. 

"Hello,  Dunbar,"  said  Clayton,  and  proceeded  to  shed  his 
fur-lined  coat.  Dunbar  turned  and  surveyed  him  with  the 
grudging  admiration  of  the  undersized  man  for  the  tall  one. 

"Cold  morning/'  he  said,  coming  forward.  "Not  that  I  sup 
pose  you  know  it."  He  glanced  at  the  coat. 

"I  thought  Hutchinson  said  that  you'd  gone  away." 

"Been  to  Washington.  I  brought  something  back  that  will 
interest  you." 

From  inside  his  coat  he  produced  a  small  leather  case,  and 
took  from  it  a  number  of  photographs. 

"I  rather  gathered,  Mr.  Spencer,"  he  said  dryly,  "when  I  was 
here  last  that  you  thought  me  an  alarmist.  I  don't  know  that 
I  blame  you.  We  always  think  the  other  fellow  may  get  it, 
but  that  we  are  safe.  You  might  glance  at  those  photo 
graphs." 

He  spread  them  out  on  the  desk.  Beyond  the  windows  the 
mill  roared  on;  men  shouted,  the  locomotive  whistled,  a  long 
file  of  laborers  with  wheelbarrows  went  by.  And  from  a  new 
building  going  up  came  the  hammering  of  the  riveting-ma 
chines,  so  like  the  rapid  explosions  of  machine  guns. 

"Interesting,  aren't  they?"  queried  Dunbar.  "This  is  a 
clock-bomb  with  a  strap  for  carrying  it  under  a  coat.  That's 

120 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  121 

a  lump  of  coal — only  it  isn't.  It's  got  enough  explosive  inside 
to  blow  up  a  battleship.  It's  meant  for  that,  primarily.  That's 
fire-confetti — damnable  stuff — understand  it's  what  burned 
up  most  of  Belgium.  And  that's  a  fountain-pen.  What  do 
you  think  of  that?  Use  one  yourself,  don't  you?  Don't  leave 
it  lying  around.  That's  all." 

"What  on  earth  can  they  do  with  a  fountain-pen  ?" 

"One  of  their  best  little  tricks,"  said  Mr.  Dunbar,  with  a 
note  of  grudging  admiration  in  his  voice.  "Here's  a  cut  of  the 
mechanism.  You  sit  down,  dip  your  pen,  and  commence  to 
write.  There's  the  striking  pin,  or  whatever  they  call  it.  It 
hits  here,  and — good  night!" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  they're  using  things  like  that  here  ?" 

"I  mean  to  say  they're  planning  to,  if  they  haven't  already. 
That  coal  now,  you'd  see  that  go  into  your  furnaces,  or  under 
your  boilers,  or  wherever  you  use  it,  and  wouldn't  worry, 
would  you?" 

"Are  these  actual  photographs?" 

"Made  from  articles  taken  from  a  German  officer's  trunk, 
in  a  neutral  country.  He  was  on  his  way  somewhere,  I  im 
agine." 

Clayton  sat  silent.  Then  he  took  out  his  fountain-pen  and 
surveyed  it  with  a  smile. 

"Rather  off  fountain-pens  for  a  time,  I  take  it!"  observed 
Dunbar.  "Well,  I've  something  else  for  you.  You've  got  one 
of  the  best  little  I.  W.  W.  workers  in  the  country  right  here 
in  your  mill.  Some  of  them  aren't  so  bad — hot  air  and  noth 
ing  else.  But  this  fellow's  a  fanatic.  Which  is  the  same  as 
saying  he's  crazy." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Name's  Rudolph  Klein.  He's  a  sort  of  relation  to  the 
chap  that  got  out.  Old  man's  been  sore  on  him,  but  I  under 
stand  he's  hanging  around  the  Klein  place  again." 

Clayton  considered. 

"I  don't  remember  him.  Of  course,  I  can't  keep  track  of 
the  men.  We'll  get  rid  of  him." 


122 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Mr.    Dunbar   eyed   him. 

"That's  the  best  thing  you  can  think  of  ?" 

"I  don't  want  him  round,  do  I?" 

"Nine  of  you  men  out  of  ten  say  that.  You'd  turn  him  loose 
and  so  warn  him.  Not  only  that,  but  he'll  be  off  on  his  devil's 
work  somewhere.  Perhaps  here.  Perhaps  elsewhere.  And 
we  want  him  where  we  can  find  him.  See  here,  Mr.  Spen 
cer,  d'you  ever  hear  of  counter-espionage  ?" 

Clayton  never  had,  but  the  term  explained  itself. 

"Set  a  spy  to  watch  a  spy,"  said  Dunbar.  "Let  him  think 
he's  going  on  fine.  Find  his  confederates.  Let  them  get  ready 
to  spring  something.  And  then — get  them.  Remember,"  he 
added  with  sarcasm,  "we're  still  neutral.  You  can't  lock  a  man 
up  because  he  goes  around  yelling  'Down  with  capital !'  The 
whole  country  is  ready  to  yell  it  with  him.  And,  even  if  you 
find  him  with  a  bomb  under  his  coat,  labeled  'made  in  Ger 
many/  it's  hard  to  link  Germans  up  with  the  thing.  He  can 
say  that  he  always  buys  his  bombs  in  Germany.  That  they 
make  the  best  bombs  in  the  world.  That  he  likes  the  way  they 
pack  'em,  and  their  polite  trade  methods." 

Clayton  listened,  thinking  hard. 

"We  have  a  daughter  of  Klein's  here.  She  is  my  son's  sec 
retary." 

Dunbar  glanced  at  him  quickly,  but  his  eyes  were  on  the 
window. 

"I  know  that." 

"Think  I  should  get  rid  of  her?" 

Dunbar  hesitated.  He  liked  Clayton  Spencer,  and  it  was 
his  business  just  then  to  know  something  about  the  Kleins. 
It  would  be  a  good  thing  for  Clayton  Spencer's  boy  if  they 
got  rid  of  the  girl. 

On  the  other  hand,  to  keep  her  there  and  watch  her  was 
certainly  a  bigger  thing.  If  she  stayed  there  might  be  trouble, 
but  it  would  concern  the  boy  only.  If  she  left,  and  if  she 
was  one  link  in  the  chain  to  snare  Rudolph,  there  might  be  a 
disaster  costing  many  lives.  He  made  his  decision  quickly. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 123 

"Keep  her,  by  all  means,"  he  said.  "And  don't  tell  Mr. 
Graham  anything.  He's  young,  and  he'd  be  likely  to  show 
something.  I  suppose  she  gets  considerable  data  where  she 
is?" 

"Only  of  the  one  department.  But  that's  a  fair  indication 
of  the  rest." 

Dunbar  rose. 

"I'm  inclined  to  think  there's  nothing  to  that  end  of  it,"  he 
said.  "The  old  chap  is  sulky,  but  he's  not  dangerous.  It's 
Rudolph  I'm  afraid  of." 

At  the  luncheon  hour  that  day  Clayton,  having  finished  his 
mail,  went  to  Graham's  office.  He  seldom  did  that,  but  he  was 
uneasy.  He  wanted  to  see  the  girl.  He  wanted  to  look  her 
over  with  this  new  idea  in  his  mind.  She  had  been  a  quiet 
little  thing,  he  remembered;  thorough,  but  not  brilliant.  He 
had  sent  her  to  Graham  from  his  own  office.  He  disliked  even 
the  idea  of  suspecting  her ;  his  natural  chivalry  revolted  from 
suspecting  any  woman. 

Joey,  who  customarily  ate  his  luncheon  on  Clayton's  desk 
in  his  absence,  followed  by  one  of  Clayton's  cigarets,  watched 
him  across  the  yard,  and  whistled  as  he  saw  him  enter  Gra 
ham's  small  building. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  reflected.  "I  hope 
he  coughs  before  he  goes  in." 

But  Clayton  did  not  happen  to  cough.  Graham's  office  was 
empty,  but  there  was  a  sound  of  voices  from  Anna  Klein's 
small  room  beyond.  He  crossed  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  to 
stand  astonished,  his  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

Anna  Klein  was  seated  at  her  desk,  with  her  luncheon 
spread  before  her  on  a  newspaper,  and  seated  on  the  desk,  a 
sandwich  in  one  hand,  the  other  resting  on  Anna's  shoulder, 
was  Graham.  He  was  laughing  when  Clayton  opened  the 
door,  but  the  smile  froze  on  his  face.  He  slid  off  her  desk. 

"Want  me,  father?" 

"Yes,"  said  Clayton,  curtly.  And  went  out,  leaving  the  door 
open.  A  sort  of  stricken  silence  followed  his  exit,  then  Gra- 


124 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

ham  put  down  the  sandwich  and  went  out,  closing  the  door 
behind  him.  He  stood  just  inside  it  in  the  outer  room,  rather 
pale,  but  looking  his  father  in  the  eyes. 

"Sorry,  father,"  he  said.     "I  didn't  hear  you.    I " 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

The  boy  was  silent.  To  Clayton  he  looked  furtive,  guilty. 
His  very  expression  condemned  him  far  more  than  the  inci 
dent  itself.  And  Clayton,  along  with  his  anger,  was  puzzled 
as  to  his  best  course.  Dunbar  had  said  to  leave  the  girl  where 
she  was.  But — was  it  feasible  under  these  circumstances? 
He  was  rather  irritated  than  angry.  He  considered  a  flirta 
tion  with  one's  stenographer  rotten  bad  taste,  at  any  time.  The 
business  world,  to  his  mind,  was  divided  into  two  kinds  of 
men,  those  who  did  that  sort  of  thing,  and  those  who  did  not. 
It  was  a  code,  rather  than  a  creed,  that  the  boy  had  violated. 

Besides,  he  had  had  a  surprise.  The  girl  who  sat  laughing 
into  Graham's  face  was  not  the  Anna  Klein  he  remembered, 
a  shy,  drab  little  thing,  badly  dressed,  rather  sallow  and  un 
smiling.  Here  was  a  young  woman  undeniably  attractive, 
slightly  rouged,  trim  in  her  white  blouse,  and  with  an  air  of 
piquancy  that  was  added,  had  he  known  it,  by  the  large  imi 
tation  pearl  earrings  she  wore. 

"Get  your  hat  and  go  to  lunch,  Graham,"  he  said.  "And 
you  might  try  to  remember  that  a  slightly  different  stand 
ard  of  conduct  is  expected  from  my  son,  here,  than  may  be 
the  standard  of  some  of  the  other  men." 

"It  doesn't  mean  anything,  that  sort  of  fooling." 

"You  and  I  may  know  that.     The  girl  may  not." 

Then  he  went  out,  and  Graham  returned  unhappily  to  the 
inner  room.  Anna  was  not  crying;  she  was  too  frightened 
to  cry.  She  had  sat  without  moving,  her  hand  still  clutching 
her  untouched  sandwich.  Graham  looked  at  her  and  tried  to 
smile. 

"I'm  gone,  I  suppose?" 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that,"  he  said,  with  boyish  bravado. 
"Don't  you  worry  about  that,  little  girl." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 125 

"Father  will  kill  me,"  she  whispered.  "He's  queer  these 
days,  and  if  I  go  home  and  have  to  tell  him "  She  shud 
dered. 

"I'll  see  you  get  something  else,  if  the  worst  conies,  you 
know." 

She  glanced  up  at  him  with  that  look  of  dog-like  fidelity; 
that  always  touched  him. 

"I'll  find  you  something  good,"  he  promised. 

"Something  good,"  she  repeated,  with  sudden  bitterness. 
"And  you'll  get  another  girl  here,  and  flirt  with  her,  and  make 
her  crazy  about  you,  and " 

"Honestly,  do  you  like  me  like  that?" 

"I'm  just  mad  about  you,"  she  said  miserably. 

Frightened  though  he  was,  her  wretchedness  appealed  to 
him.  The  thought  that  she  cared  for  him,  too,  was  a  salve 
to  his  outraged  pride.  A  moment  ago,  in  the  other  room, 
he  had  felt  like  a  bad  small  boy.  As  with  Marion,  Anna 
made  him  feel  every  inch  a  man.  But  she  gave  him  what 
Marion  did  not,  the  feeling  of  her  complete  surrender.  Mar 
ion  would  take ;  this  girl  would  give. 

He  bent  clown  and  put  his  arms  around  her. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  he  said.    "Poor  little  girl!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  gay  and  fashionable  crowd  of  which  Audrey  had 
been  the  center  played  madly  that  winter.  The  short 
six  weeks  of  the  season  were  already  close  to  an  end.  By 
mid-January  the  south  and  California  would  have  claimed 
most  of  the  women  and  some  of  the  men.  There  were  a  few, 
of  course,  who  saw  the  inevitable  catastrophe :  the  Mackenzies 
had  laid  up  their  house-boat  on  the  west  coast  of  Florida. 
Denis  Nolan  had  let  his  little  place  at  Pinehurst. 

The  advance  wave  of  the  war  tide,  the  increased  cost  of 
living,  had  sobered  and  made  thoughtful  the  middle  class, 
but  above  in  the  great  businesses,  and  below  among  the  la 
boring  people,  money  was  plentiful  and  extravagance  ran 
riot. 

And  Audrey  Valentine's  world  missed  her.  It  refused  to 
accept  her  poverty  as  an  excuse,  and  clamored  for  her. 

It  wanted  her  to  sit  again  at  a  piano,  somewhere,  anywhere, 
with  a  lighted  cigaret  on  the  music-rack,  and  sing  her  husky, 
naive  little  songs.  It  wanted  her  cool  audacity.  It  wanted 
her  for  week-end  parties  and  bridge,  and  to  canter  on  frosty 
mornings  on  its  best  horses  and  make  slaves  c ?  the  park 
policemen,  so  that  she  might  jump  forbidden  fences.  It 
wanted  to  see  her  oust  its  grinning  chauffeurs,  and  drive  its 
best  cars  at  their  best  speed. 

Audrey  Valentine  leading  a  cloistered  life!  Impossible! 
Selfish! 

And  Audrey  was  not  cut  out  for  solitude.  She  did  not 
mind  poverty.  She  found  it  rather  a  relief  to  acknowledge 
what  had  always  been  the  fact.  But  she  did  mind  loneliness. 
And  her  idea  of  making  herself  over  into  something  useful 
was  not  working  out  particularly  well.  She  spent  two  hours 

126 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 127 

a  day,  at  a  down-town  school,  struggling  with  shorthand,  and 
her  writing-table  was  always  littered  with  papers  covered 
with  queer  hooks  and  curves,  or  with  typed  sheets  beginning: 

"Messrs  Smitk  and  Co. , :  Dear  Sirs." 

Clayton  Spencer  met  her  late  in  December,  walking  fever 
ishly  along  with  a  book  under  her  arm,  and  a  half-desperate 
look  in  her  eyes.  He  felt  a  little  thrill  when  he  saw  her, 
which  should  have  warned  him  but  did  not. 

She  did  not  even  greet  him.  She  stopped  and  held  out  her 
book  to  him. 

"Take  it !"  she  said.  "I've  thrown  it  away  twice,  and  two 
wretched  men  have  run  after  me  and  brought  it  back." 

He  took  it  and  glanced  at  it. 

"Spelling!     Can't  you  spell?" 

"Certainly  I  can  spell,"  she  said  with  dignity.  "Fm  a  very 
good  speller.  Clay,  there  isn't  an  "i"  in  business,  is  there  ?" 

"It  is  generally  considered  necessary  to  have  two  pretty 
good  eyes  in  business."  But  he  saw  then  that  she  was  really 
rather  despairing.  "There  is,  one  'i/  "  he  said.  "It  seems 
foolish,  doesn't  it  ?  Audrey  dear,  what  are  you  trying  to  do  ? 
For  heaven's  sake,  if  it's  money " 

"It  isn't  that.  I  have  enough.  Honestly,  Clay,  I  just  had 
some  sort  of  an  idea  that  I'd  been  playing  long  enough.  But 
Fm  only  good  for  play.  That  man  this  morning  said  as  much, 
when  we  fussed  about  my  spelling.  He  said  I'd  better  write 
a  new  dictionary." 

Clayton  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed,  and  after  a  mo 
ment  she  laughed,  too.  But  as  he  went  on  his  face  was  grave. 
Somebody  ought  to  be  looking  after  her.  It  was  not  for  some 
time  that  he  realized  he  carried  the  absurd  little  spelling- 
book.  He  took  it  back  to  the  office  with  him,  and  put  it  in 
the  back  of  a  drawer  of  his  desk.  Joey,  coming  in  some  time 
later,  found  him,  with  the  drawer  open,  and  something  in 
his  hands  which  he  hastily  put  away.  Later  on,  Joey  investi- 


128 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

gated  that  drawer,  and  found  the  little  book.  He  inspected 
it  with  a  mixture  of  surprise  and  scorn. 

"Spelling!"  he  muttered.  "And  a  hundred  dollar  a  month 
girl  to  spell  for  him!"' 

It  was  Rodney  Page  who  forced  Audrey  out  of  her  seclu 
sion. 

Rodney  had  had  a  prosperous  year,  and  for  some  time  his 
conscience  had  been  bothering  him.  For  a  good  many  years 
he  had  blithely  accepted  the  invitations  of  his  friends — din 
ners,  balls,  week-end  and  yachting  parties,  paying  his  way 
with  an  occasional  box  of  flowers.  He  decided,  that  last 
winter  of  peace,  to  turn  host  and,  true  to  instinct,  to  do  the 
unusual. 

It  was  Natalie  who  gave  him  the  suggestion. 

"Why  don't  you  turn  your  carriage-house  into  a  studio, 
and  give  a  studio  warming,  Roddie?  It  would  be  fun  fixing 
it  up.  And  you  might  make  it  fancy  dress." 

Before  long,  of  course,  he  had  accepted  the  idea  as  of  his 
own  originating,  and  was  hard  at  work. 

Rodney's  house  had  been  his  father's.  He  still  lived  there, 
although  the  business  district  had  encroached  closely.  And 
for  some  time  he  had  used  the  large  stable  and  carriage-house 
at  the  rear  as  a  place  in  which  to  store  the  odd  bits  of  furni 
ture,  old  mirrors  and  odds  and  ends  that  he  had  picked  up 
here  and  there.  Now  and  then,  as  to  Natalie,  he  sold  some 
of  them,  but  he  was  a  collector,  not  a  merchant.  In  his  way, 
he  was  an  artist. 

In  the  upper  floor  he  had  built  a  skylight,  and  there,  in  odd 
hours,  he  worked  out,  in  water-color,  sketches  of  interiors, 
sometimes  for  houses  he  was  building,  sometimes  purely  for 
the  pleasure  of  the  thing. 

The  war  had  brought  him  enormous  increase  in  his  collec 
tion.  Owners  of  French  chateaus,  driven  to  poverty,  were 
sending  to  America  treasures  of  all  sorts  of  furniture,  tap 
estries,  carpets,  old  fountains,  porcelains,  even  carved  wood- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 129 

work  and  ancient  mantels,  and  Rodney,  from  the  mixed  mo 
tives  of  business  and  pride,  decided  to  exhibit  them. 

The  old  brick  floor  of  the  stable  he  replaced  with  hand 
made  tiles.  The  box-stalls  were  small  display-rooms,  hung 
with  tapestries  and  lighted  with  candles  in  old  French  sconces. 
The  great  carriage-room  became  a  refectory,  with  Jacobean 
and  old  monastery  chairs,  and  the  vast  loft  overhead,  reached 
by  a  narrow  staircase  that  clung  to  the  wall,  was  railed  on 
its  exposed  side,  waxed  as  to  floor,  hung  with  lanterns,  and 
became  a  ballroom. 

Natalie  worked  with  him,  spending  much  time  and  a  prodi 
gious  amount  of  energy.  There  was  springing  up  between 
them  one  of  those  curious  and  dangerous  intimacies,  of  idle 
ness  on  the  woman's  part,  of  admiration  on  the  man's,  which 
sometimes  develop  into  a  wholly  spurious  passion.  Prob 
ably  Rodney  realized  it;  certainly  Natalie  did  not.  She  liked 
his  admiration ;  she  dressed,  each  day,  for  Rodney's  unfailing 
comment  on  her  clothes. 

"Clay  never  notices  what  I  wear,"  she  said,  once,  plain 
tively. 

So  it  was  Rodney  who  brought  Audrey  Valentine  out  of 
her  seclusion,  and  he  did  it  by  making  her  angry.  He  dropped 
in  to  see  her  between  Christmas  and  New-years,  and  made 
a  plea. 

"A  stable-warming!"  she  said.  "How  interesting!  And 
fancy  dress !  Are  you  going  to  have  them  come  as  grooms, 
or  jockeys?  If  I  were  going  I'd  go  as  a  circus-rider.  I  used 
to  be  able  to  stand  up  on  a  running  horse.  Of  course  you're 
having  horses.  What's  a  stable  without  a  horse  ?" 

He  saw  she  was  laughing  at  him  and  was  rather  resentful. 

"I  told  you  I  have  made  it  into  a  studio." 

But  when  he  implored  her  to  go,  she  was  obdurate. 

"Do  go  away  and  let  me  alone,  Rodney,"  she  said  at  last. 
"I  loathe  fancy-dress  parties." 

"It  won't  be  a  party  without  you." 

"Then  don't  have  it.    I've  told  you,  over  and  over,  I'm  not 


i3Q  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

going  out.  It  isn't  decent  this  year,  in  my  opinion.  And, 
anyhow,  I  haven't  any  money,  any  clothes,  any  anything.  A 
bad  evening  at  bridge,  and  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  pay  my 
rent." 

"That's '  nonsense.  Why  do  you  let  people  say  you  are 
moping  about  Chris?  You're  not." 

"Of  course  not." 

Sne  sat  up. 

"What  else  are  they  saying?" 

"Well,  there's  some  talk,  naturally.  You  can't  be  as  popu 
lar  as  you  have  been,  and  then  just  drop  out,  without  some 
gossip.  It's  not  bad." 

"What  sort  of  talk?" 

He  was  very  uncomfortable. 

"Well,  of  course,  you  have  been  pretty  strong  on  the  war 
stuff " 

"Oh,  they  think  I  sent  him !" 

"If  only  you  wouldn't  hide,  Audrey.  That's  what  has  made 
the  talk.  It's  not  Chris's  going." 

"I'm  not  hiding.  That's  idiotic.  I  was  bored  to  death,  if 
you  want  the  truth.  Look  here,  Rodney.  You're  not  being 
honest.  What  do  they  say  about  Chris  and  myself  ?" 

He  was  cornered. 

"Is  it — about  another  woman  ?" 

"Well,  of  course  now  and  then — there  are  always  such 
stories.  And  of  course  Chris " 

"Yes,  they  knew  Chris."  Her  voice  was  scornful.  "So 
they  think  I'm  moping  and  hiding  because —  How  inter 
esting  !" 

She  sat  back,  with  her  old  insolent  smile. 

"Poor  Chris!"  she  said.  "The  only  man  in  the  lot  except 
Clay  Spencer  who  is  doing  his  bit  for  the  war,  and  they — 
when  is  your  party,  Roddie  ?" 

"New-year's  Eve." 

"I'll  come,"  she  said.  And  smiling  again,  dangerously,  "I'll 
come,  with  bells  on." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THERE  had  been  once,  in  Herman  Klein  the  making  of 
a  good  American.    He  had  come  to  America,  not  at  the 
call  of  freedom,  but  of  peace  and  plenty.     Nevertheless,  he 
had  possibilities. 

Taken  in  time  he  might  have  become  a  good  American. 
But  nothing  was  done  to  stimulate  in  him  a  sentiment  for  his 
adopted  land.  He  would,  indeed,  have  been,  for  all  his  citi 
zenship  papers,  a  man  without  a  country  but  for  one  thing. 

The  Fatherland  had  never  let  go.  When  he  went  to  the 
Turnverein,  it  was  to  hear  the  old  tongue,  to  sing  the  old 
songs.  Visiting  Germans  from  overseas  were  constantly  lec 
turing,  holding  before  him  the  vision  of  great  Germany.  He 
saw  moving-pictures  of  Germany;  he  went  to  meetings  which 
commenced  with  "Die  Wacht  am  Rhine."  One  Christmas  he 
received  a  handsome  copy  of  a  photograph  of  the  Kaiser 
through  the  mail.  He  never  knew  who  sent  it,  but  he  had 
it  framed  in  a  gilt  frame,  and  it  hung  over  the  fireplace  in  the 
sitting-room. 

He  had  been  adopted  by  America,  but  he  had  not  adopted 
America,  save  his  own  tiny  bit  of  it.  He  took  what  the  new 
country  gave  him  with  no  faintest  sense  that  he  owed  any 
thing  in  return  beyond  his  small  yearly  taxes.  He  was  neither 
friendly  nor  inimical. 

His  creed  through  the  years  had  been  simple:  to  owe  no 
man  money,  even  for  a  day;  to  spend  less  than  he  earned; 
to  own  his  own  home ;  to  rise  early,  work  hard,  and  to  live 
at  peace  with  his  neighbors.  He  had  learned  English  and  had 
sent  Anna  to  the  public  school.  He  spoke  English  with  her, 
always.  And  on  Sunday  he  put  on  his  best  clothes,  and  sat 
in  the  German  Lutheran  church,  dozing  occasionally,  but 
always  rigidly  erect. 

131 


132 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

With  his  first  savings  he  had  bought  a  home,  a  tiny  two- 
roomed  frame  cottage  on  a  hill  above  the  Spencer  mill,  with 
a  bit  of  waste  land  that  he  turned  into  a  thrifty  garden.  Anna 
was  born  there,  and  her  mother  had  died  there  ten  years  later. 
But  long  enough  before  that  he  had  added  four  rooms,  and 
bought  an  adjoining  lot.  At  that  time  the  hill  had  been 
green;  the  way  to  the  little  white  house  had  been  along  and 
up  a  winding  path,  where  in  the  spring  the  early  wild  flowers 
came  out  on  sunny  banks,  and  the  first  buds  of  the  neigh 
borhood  were  on  Klein's  own  lilac-bushes. 

He  had  had  a  magnificent  sense  of  independence  those  days, 
and  of  freedom. 

-  He  voted  religiously,  and  now  and  then  in  the  evenings  he 
had  been  the  moderate  member  of  a  mild  socialist  group. 
Theoretically,  he  believed  that  no  man  should  amass  a  fortune 
by  the  labor  of  others.  Actually  he  felt  himself  well  paid,  a 
respected  member  of  society,  and  a  property  owner. 

In  the  early  morning,  winter  and  summer,  he  emerged  into 
the  small  side  porch  of  his  cottage  and  there  threw  over 
himself  a  pail  of  cold  water  from  the  well  outside.  Then  he 
rubbed  down,  dressed  in  the  open  air  behind  the  old  awning 
hung  there,  took  a  dozen  deep  breaths  and  a  cup  of  coffee, 
and  was  off  for  work.  The  addition  of  a  bathroom,  with 
running  hot  water,  had  made  no  change  in  his  daily  habits. 

He  was  very  strict  with  Anna,  and  with  the  wromen  who, 
one  after  another,  kept  house  for  him. 

"I'll  have  no  men  lounging  around,"  was  his  first  instruc 
tion  on  engaging  them.  And  to  Anna  his  solicitude  took  the 
form  almost  of  espionage.  The  only  young  man  he  tolerated 
about  the  place  was  a  distant  relative,  Rudolph  Klein. 

On  Sunday  evenings  Rudolph  came  in  to  supper.  But  even 
Rudolph  found  it  hard  to  get  a  word  with  the  girl  alone. 

"What's  eating  him,  anyhow,"  he  demanded  of  Anna  one 
Sunday  evening,  when  by  the  accident  of  a  neighbor  calling 
old  Herman  to  the  gate,  he  had  the  chance  of  a  word. 

"lie  knows  a  lot  about  you  fellows,"  Anna  had  said.    "And 


DANGEROUS  DAYS i_33 

the  more  he  knows  the  less  he  trusts  you.    I  don't  wonder." 

"He  hasn't  anything  on  me." 

But  Anna  had  come  to  the  limit  of  her  patience  with  her 
father  at  last. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  she  demanded  angrily  one 
night,  when  Herman  had  sat  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and 
had  refused  her  permission  to  go  to  the  moving-pictures  with 
another  girl.  "Do  you  think  I'm  going  on  forever  like  this, 
without  a  chance  to  play?  I'm  sick  of  it.  That's  all." 

"You  vill  not  run  around  with  the  girls  on  this  hill."  He 
had  conquered  all  but  the  English  "w."  He  still  pronounced 
it  like  a  "v." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  girls  on  this  hill?"  And  when 
he  smoked  on  in  imperturbable  silence,  she  had  flamed  into  a 
fury. 

"This  is  free  America,"  she  reminded  him.  "It's  not  Ger 
many.  And  I've  stood  about  all  I  can.  I  work  all  day,  and 
I  need  a  little  fun.  I'm  going." 

And  she  had  gone,  rather  shaky  as  to  the  knees,  but  with 
her  head  held  high,  leaving  him  on  the  little  veranda  with 
his  dead  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  his  German-American  news 
paper  held  before  his  face.  She  had  returned,  still  terrified, 
to  find  the  house  dark  and  the  doors  locked,  and  rather  than 
confess  to  any  one,  she  had  spent  the  night  in  a  chair  out  of 
doors. 

At  dawn  she  had  heard  him  at  the  side  of  the  house,  draw 
ing  water  for  his  bath.  He  had  gone  through  his  morning 
program  as  usual,  by  the  sounds,  and  had  started  off  for 
work  without  an  inquiry  about  her.  Only  when  she  heard 
the  gate  click  had  she  hammered  at  the  front  door  and  been 
admitted  by  the  untidy  servant. 

"Fine  way  to  treat  me !"  she  had  stormed,  and  for  a  part  of 
that  day  she  was  convinced  that  she  would  never  go  back 
home  again.  But  fear  of  her  father  was  the  strongest  emo 
tion  she  knew,  and  she  went  back  that  night,  as  usual.  It 
not  being  Herman's  way  to  bother  with  greetings,  she  had 


134 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

passed  him  on  the  porch  without  a  word,  and  that  night, 
winding  a  clock  before  closing  the  house,  he  spoke  to  her 
for  the  first  time. 

"There  is  a  performance  at  the  Turnverein  Hall  to-morrow 
night.  Rudolph  vill  take  you." 

"I  don't  like  Rudolph." 

"Rudolph  vill  take  you,"  he  had  repeated,  stolidly.  And 
she  had  gone. 

He  had  no  conception  of  any  failure  in  himself  as  a  parent. 
He  had  the  German  idea  of  women.  They  had  a  distinct 
place  in  the  world,  but  that  place  was  not  a  high  one.  Their 
function  was  to  bring  children  into  the  world.  They  were 
breeding  animals,  and  as  such  to  be  carefully  watched  and 
not  particularly  trusted.  They  had  no  place  in  the  affairs  of 
men,  outside  the  home. 

Not  that  he  put  it  that  way.  In  his  way  he  probably  loved 
the  girl.  But  never  once  did  he  think  of  her  as  an  intelli 
gent  and  reasoning  creature.  He  took  her  salary,  gave  her  a 
small  allowance  for  car-fare,  and  banked  the  rest  of  it  in 
his  own  name.  It  would  all  be  hers  some  day,  so  what  dif 
ference  did  it  make? 

But  the  direst  want  would  not  have  made  him  touch  a 
penny  of  it. 

He  disliked  animals.  But  in  a  curious  shame-faced  fash 
ion  he  liked  flowers.  Such  portions  of  his  garden  as  were 
useless  for  vegetables  he  had  planted  out  in  flowers.  But  he 
never  cut  them  and  brought  them  into  the  house,  and  he 
watched  jealously  that  no  one  else  should  do  so.  He  kept 
poisoned  meat  around  for  such  dogs  in  the  neighborhood  as 
wandered  in,  and  Anna  had  found  him  once  callously  watch 
ing  the  death  agonies  of  one  of  them. 

Such,  at  the  time  the  Spencer  mill  began  wrork  on  its  new 
shell  contract,  was  Herman  Klein,  sturdily  honest,  just  ac 
cording  to  his  ideas  of  justice,  callous  rather  than  cruel,  but 
the  citizen  of  a  world  bounded  by  his  memories  of  Germany, 
his  life  at  the  mill,  and  his  home. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 135 

But,  for  all  that,  he  was  not  a  man  the  German  organiza 
tion  in  America  put  much  faith  in.  Rudolph,  feeling  his  way, 
had  had  one  or  two  conversations  with  him  early  in  the  war 
that  had  made  him  report  adversely. 

"Let  them  stop  all  this  fighting,"  Herman  had  said.  "What 
matter  now  who  commenced  it  ?  Let  them  all  stop.  It  is  the 
only  way." 

"Sure,  let  them  stop !"  said  Rudolph,  easily.  "Let  them 
stop  trying  to  destroy  Germany." 

"That  is  nonsense,"  Herman  affirmed,  sturdily.  "Do  you 
think  I  know  nothing?  I,  who  was  in  the  Prussian  Guard  for 
five  years.  Think  you  I  know  nothing  of  the  plan?" 

The  report  of  the  German  atrocities,  however,  found  him 
frankly  incredulous,  and  one  noon  hour,  in  the  mill,  having 
read  the  Belgian  King's  statement  that  the  German  army  in 
Belgium  had  protected  its  advance  with  women  and  children, 
Rudolph  found  him  tearing  the  papers  to  shreds  furiously. 

"Such  lies !"  he  cried.  "It  is  not  possible  that  they  should 
be  believed." 

The  sinking  of  the  Lusitania,  however,  left  him  thoughtful 
and  depressed.  In  vain  Rudolph  argued  with  him. 

"They  were  warned,"  he  said.  "If  they  chose  to  take  the 
chance,  is  it  Germany's  fault  ?  If  you  tell  me  not  to  put  my 
hand  on  a  certain  piece  in  a  machine  and  I  do  it  anyhow,  is 
it  your  fault  if  I  lose  a  hand?" 

Old  Herman  eyed  him  shrewdly. 

"And  if  Anna  had  been  on  the  ship,  you  think  the  same, 
eh?" 

Rudolph  had  colored. 

For  some  time  now  Rudolph  had  been  in  love  with  Anna. 
He  had  not  had  much  encouragement.  She  went  out  with 
him,  since  he  was  her  only  means  of  escape,  but  she  treated 
him  rather  cavalierly,  criticized  his  clothes  and  speech,  laughed 
openly  at  his  occasional  lapses  into  sentiment,  and  was,  once 
in  a  long  time,  so  kind  that  she  set  his  heart  leaping. 

Until  the  return  of  Graham  Spencer,  all  had  gone  fairly 


136 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

well.  But  with  his  installment  in  the  mill,  Rudolph's  relations 
with  Anna  had  changed.  She  had  grown  prettier — Rudolph 
was  not  observant  enough  to  mark  what  made  the  change, 
but  he  knew  that  he  was  madder  about  her  than  ever.  And 
she  had  assumed  toward  him  an  attitude  of  almost  scornful 
indifference.  The  effect  on  his  undisciplined  young  mind 
was  bad.  He  had  no  suspicion  of  Graham.  He  only  knew 
his  own  desperate  unhappiness.  In  the  meetings  held  twice 
weekly  in  a  hall  on  Third  Street  he  was  reckless,  advocating 
violence  constantly.  The  conservative  element  watched  him 
uneasily;  the  others  kept  an  eye  on  him,  for  future  use. 

The  closing  week  of  the  old  year  found  the  situation 
strained  in  the  Klein  house.  Herman  had  had  plenty  of  op 
portunities  for  situations,  but  all  of  them  had  to  do  directly 
or  indirectly  with  the  making  of  munitions  for  the  Allies.  Old 
firms  in  other  lines  were  not  taking  on  new  men.  It  was  the 
munition  worl:s  that  were  increasing  their  personnel.  And  by 
that  time  the  determination  not  to  assist  Germany's  enemies 
had  become  a  fixed  one. 

The  day  after  Christmas,  in  pursuit  of  this  idea,  he  com 
manded  Anna  to  leave  the  mill.  But  she  had  defied  him, 
for  the  second  time  in  her  life,  her  face  pale  to  the  lips. 

"Not  on  your  life,"  she  had  said.  "You  may  want  to 
starve.  I  don't." 

"There  is  plenty  of  other  work." 

"Don't  you  kid  yourself.  And,  anyhow,  I'm  not  looking 
for  it.  I  don't  mind  working  so  you  can  sit  here  and  nurse 
a  grouch,  but  I  certainly  don't  intend  to  start  hunting  an 
other  job." 

She  had  eyed  him  morosely.  "If  you  ask  me,"  she  con 
tinued,  "you're  out  of  your  mind.  What's  Germany  to  you? 
You  forgot  it  as  fast  as  you  could,  until  this  war  came  along. 
You  and  Rudolph!  You're  long  distance  patriots,  you  are." 

"I  will  not  help  my  country's  enemies,"  he  had  said  dog 
gedly. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 137 

"Your  country's  enemies.  My  word !  Isn't  this  your  coun 
try?  What's  the  old  Kaiser  to  you?" 

He  had  ordered  her  out  of  the  house,  then,  but  she  had 
laughed  at  him.  She  could  always  better  him  in  an  argu 
ment. 

"Suppose  I  do  go?"  she  had  inquired.  "What  are  you 
going  to  live  on  ?  I'm  not  crazy  in  the  head,  if  you  are." 

She  rather  thought  he  would  strike  her.  He  had  done  it 
before,  with  the  idea  of  enforcing  discipline.  If  he  did,  she 
would  leave  him.  Let  him  shift  for  himself.  He  had  taken 
her  money  for  years,  and  he  could  live  on  that.  But  he  had 
only  glared  at  her. 

"We  would  have  done  better  to  remain  in  Germany,"  he 
said.  "America  has  no  respect  for  parents.  It  has  no  dis 
cipline.  It  is  a  country  without  law." 

She  felt  a  weakening  in  him,  and  followed  up  her  advantage. 

"And  another  thing,  while  we're  at  it,"  she  flung  at  him. 
"Don't  you  go  on  trying  to  shove  Rudolph  down  my  throat. 
I'm  off  Rudolph  for  keeps." 

She  flung  out  her  arm,  and  old  Herman  saw  the  gleam  of 
something  gold  on  her  wrist.  He  caught  her  hand  in  his  iron 
grip  and  shoved  up  her  sleeve.  There  was  a  tiny  gold  wrist- 
watch  there,  on  a  flexible  chain.  His  amazement  and  rage 
gave  her  a  moment  to  think,  although  she  was  terrified. 

"Where  did  you  get  that?" 

"The  mill  gave  them  to  the  stenographers  for  Christmas." 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me?" 

"We're  not  talking  much  these  days,  are  we?" 

He  let  her  go  then,  and  that  night,  in  the  little  room  behind 
Gustav  Shroeder's  saloon,  he  put  the  question  to  Rudolph.  Be 
cause  he  was  excited  and  frightened  he  made  slow  work  of 
his  inquiry,  and  Rudolph  had  a  moment  to  think. 

"Sure,"  he  replied.  "All  the  girls  in  the  executive  offices 
got  them." 

But  when  uic  ~.c:i;ng  was  over,  Rudolph  did  not  go  back 
to  his  boarding-house.  He  walked  the  streets  and  thought. 


138 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

He  had  saved  Anna  from  her  father.  But  he  was  of  no 
mind  to  save  her  from  himself.  She  would  have  to  account 
to  him  for  that  watch. 

Anna  herself  lay  awake  until  late.  She  saw  already  the 
difficulties  before  her.  Herman  was  suspicious.  He  might 
inquire.  There  were  other  girls  from  the  mill  offices  on  the 
hill.  And  he  might  speak  to  Rudolph. 

The  next  evening  she  found  Rudolph  waiting  for  her  out 
side  the  mill  gate.  Together  they  started  up  what  had  been, 
when  Herman  bought  the  cottage,  a  green  hill  with  a  winding 
path.  But  the  smoke  and  ore  from  the  mill  had  long  ago 
turned  it  to  bareness,  had  killed  the  trees  and  shrubbery,  and 
filled  the  little  hollows  where  once  the  first  arbutus  had  hid 
den  with  cinders  and  ore  dust.  The  path  had  become  a 
crooked  street,  lined  with  wooden  houses,  and  paved  with 
worn  and  broken  bricks. 

Where  once  Herman  Klein  had  carried  his  pail  and  whistled 
bits  of  Shubert  as  he  climbed  along,  a  long  line  of  blackened 
men  made  their  evening  way.  Untidy  children  sat  on  the 
curb,  dogs  lay  in  the  center  of  the  road,  and  women  in  all 
stages  of  dishabille  hung  over  the  high  railings  of  their  porches 
and  watched  for  their  men. 

Under  protest  of  giving  her  a  lift  up  the  hill,  Rudolph 
slipped  his  hand  through  Anna's  left  arm. 

Immediately  she  knew  that  the  movement  was  a  pretext. 
She  could  not  free  herself. 

"Be  good,  now,"  he  cautioned  her.  "I've  got  you.  I  want 
to  see  that  watch." 

"You  let  me  alone." 

"I'm  going  to  see  that  watch." 

With  his  free  hand  he  felt  under  her  sleeve  and  drew  down 
the  bracelet. 

"So  the  mill  gave  it  to  you,  eh?  That's  a  lie,  and  you 
know  it." 

"I'll  tell  you,  Rudolph,"  she  temporized.     "Only  don't  tell 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 139 

father.  All  the  girls  have  watches,  and  I  wanted  one.  So  I 
bought  it." 

"That's  a  lie,  too." 

"On  the  installment  plan,"  she  insisted.  "A  dollar  a  week, 
that's  straight.  I've  paid  five  on  it  already." 

He  was  almost  convinced,  not  quite.  He  unfastened  it  awk 
wardly  and  took  it  off  her  wrist.  It  was  a  plain  little  octag 
onal  watch,  and  on  the  back  was  a  monogram.  The  mono 
gram  made  him- suspicious  again. 

"It's  only  gold  filled,  Rudolph." 

"Pretty  classy  monogram  for  a  cheap  watch."  He  held  it 
close;  on  the  dial  was  the  jeweler's  name,  a  famous  one.  He 
said  nothing  more,  put  it  back  on  Anna's  arm  and  released 
her.  At  the  next  corner  he  left  her,  with  a  civil  enough 
good-by,  but  with  rage  in  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  New-year,  destined  to  be  so  crucial,  came  in  cheer 
fully  enough.  There  was,  to  be  sure,  a  trifle  less  ostenta 
tion  in  the  public  celebrations,  but  the  usual  amount  of  cham 
pagne  brought  in  the  most  vital  year  in  the  history  of  the 
nation.  The  customary  number  of  men,  warmed  by  that 
champagne,  made  reckless  love  to  the  women  who  happened 
to  be  near  them  and  forgot  it  by  morning.  And  the  women 
themselves  presented  pictures  of  splendor  of  a  peculiar  gor- 
geousness. 

The  fact  that  almost  coincident  with  the  war  there  had 
come  into  prominence  an  entirely  new  school  of  color  formed 
one  of  the  curious  contrasts  of  the  period.  Into  a  drab  world 
there  flamed  strange  and  bizarre  theatrical  effects,  in  scenery 
and  costume.  Some  of  it  was  beautiful,  most  of  it  merely 
fantastic.  But  it  was  immediately  reflected  in  the  clothing  of 
fashionable  women.  Europe,  which  had  originated  it,  could 
use  it  but  little;  but  great  opulent  America  adopted  it  and 
made  it  her  own. 

So,  while  the  rest  of  the  world  was  gray,  America  flamed, 
and  Natalie  Spencer,  spending  her  days  between  dressmakers 
and  decorators,  flamed  with  the  rest. 

On  New-year's  Eve  Clayton  Spencer  always  preceded  the 
annual  ball  of  the  City  Club,  of  which  he  was  president,  by  a 
dinner  to  the  board  of  governors  and  their  wives.  It  was 
his  dinner.  He,  and  not  Natalie,  arranged  the  seating,  ordered 
the  flowers,  and  planned  the  menu.  He  took  considerable 
pride  in  it;  he  liked  to  think  that  it  was  both  beautiful  and 
dignified.  His  father  had  been  president  before  him,  and 
he  liked  to  think  that  he  was  carrying  on  his  father's  custom 
with  the  punctilious  dignity  that  had  so  characterized  him. 

140 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 141 

He  was  dressed  early.  Natalie  had  been  closeted  with 
Madeleine,  her  maid,  and  a  hair-dresser,  for  hours.  As  he 
went  down-stairs  he  could  hear  her  voice  raised  in  querulous 
protest  about  something. 

When  he  went  into  the  library  Buckham  was  there  stoop 
ing  over  the  fire,  his  austere  old  face  serious  and  intent. 

"Well,  another  year  almost  gone,  Buckham!"  he  said. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Spencer." 

"It  would  be  interesting  to  know  what  the  New-year  holds." 

"I  hope  it  will  bring  you  peace  and  happiness,  sir." 

"Thank  you." 

And  after  Buckham  had  gone  he  thought  that  rather  a 
curious  New-year's  wish.  Peace  and  happiness !  Well,  God 
knows  he  wanted  both.  A  vague  comprehension  of  the  under 
standing  the  upper  servants  of  a  household  acquire  as  to  the 
inner  life  of  the  family  stirred  in  him;  how  much  they  knew 
and  concealed  under  their  impassive  service. 

When  Natalie  came  down  the  staircase  a  few  minutes  later 
she  was  swathed  in  her  chinchilla  evening  wrap,  and  she 
watched  his  face,  after  her  custom  when  she  expected  to  annoy 
him,  with  the  furtive  look  that  he  had  grown  to  associate  with 
some  unpleasantness. 

"I  hate  dressing  for  a  ball  at  this  hour,"  she  said,  rather 
breathlessly.  "I  don't  feel  half -dressed  by  midnight." 

Madeleine,  in  street  costume,  was  behind  her  with  a  great 
box. 

"She  has  something  for  my  hair,"  she  explained.  Her  tone 
was  nervous,  but  he  was  entirely  unsuspicious. 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  don't  go  on  to  Page's,  do  you?  I'm 
rather  tired,  and  I  ought  to  stay  at  the  club  as  late  as  I  can." 

"Of  course  not.  I  shall  probably  pick  up  some  people,  any 
how.  Everybody  is  going  on." 

In  the  car  she  chattered  feverishly  and  he  listened,  lapsing 
into  one  of  the  silences  which  her  talkative  spells  always  en 
forced. 

"What  flowers  are  you  having  ?"  she  asked,  finally. 


142  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"White  lilacs  and  pussy-willow.     Did  your  orchids  come?" 

"Thanks,  yes.  But  I'm  not  wearing  them.  My  gown  is 
flame  color.  They  simply  shrieked. 

"Flame  color?" 

"A  sort  of  orange,"  she  explained.  And,  in  a  slightly 
defiant  tone :  "Rodney's  is  a  costume  dance,  you  know." 

"Do  you  mean  you  are  in  fancy  dress?" 

"I  am,  indeed." 

He  was  rather  startled.  The  annual  dinner  of  the  board 
of  governors  of  the  City  Club  and  their  wives  was  a  most 
dignified  function  always.  He  was  the  youngest  by  far  of 
the  men;  the  women  were  all  frankly  dowagers.  They  rep 
resented  the  conservative  element  of  the  city's  social  life, 
that  element  which  frowned  on  smartness  and  did  not  even 
recognize  the  bizarre.  It  was  old-fashioned,  secure  in  its 
position,  influential,  and  slightly  tedious. 

"There  will  be  plenty  in  fancy  dress." 

"Not  at  the  dinner." 

"Stodgy  old  frumps!"  was  Natalie's  comment.  "I  be 
lieve  you  would  rather  break  one  of  the  ten  commandments 
than  one  of  the  conventions,"  she  added. 

It  was  when  he  saw  her  coming  down  the  staircase  in  the 
still  empty  clubhouse  that  he  realized  the  reason  for  her  de 
fiant  attitude  when  she  acknowledged  to  fancy  dress.  For 
she  wore  a  peacock  costume  of  the  most  daring  sort.  Over 
an  orange  foundation,  eccentric  in  itself  and  very  short,  was 
a  vivid  tunic  covered  with  peacock  feathers  on  gold  tissue, 
with  a  sweeping  tail  behind,  and  on  her  head  was  the  towering 
crest  of  a  peacock  on  a  gold  bandeau.  She  waved  a  great  pea 
cock  fan,  also,  and  half-way  down  the  stairs  she  paused  and 
looked  down  at  him,  with  half- frightened  eyes. 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"It  is  very  wonderful,"  he  said,  gravely. 

He  could  not  hurt  her.  Her  pleasure  in  it  was  too  naive. 
It  dawned  on  him  then  that  Natalie  was  really  a  child,  a 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 143 

spoiled  and  wilful  child.  And  always  afterward  he  tried  to 
remember  that,  and  to  judge  her  accordingly. 

She  came  down,  the  upturned  wired  points  of  the  tunic 
trembling  as  she  stepped.  When  she  came  closer  he  saw  that 
she  was  made  up  for  the  costume  ball  also,  her  face  frankly 
rouged,  fine  lines  under  her  eyes,  her  lashes  blackened.  She 
looked  very  lovely  and  quite  unfamiliar.  But  he  had  deter 
mined  not  to  spoil  her  evening,  and  he  continued  gravely 
smiling. 

"You'd  better  like  it,  Clay,"  she  said,  and  took  a  calculating 
advantage  of  what  she  considered  a  softened  mood.  "It  cost 
a  thousand  dollars." 

She  went  on  past  him,  toward  the  room  where  the  florist 
was  still  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  the  flowers  on  the 
table.  When  the  first  guests  arrived,  she  came  back  and 
took  her  place  near  him,  and  he  was  uncomfortably  aware 
of  the  little  start  of  surprise  with  which  she  burst  upon  each 
new  arrival.  In  the  old  and  rather  staid  surroundings  of  the 
club  she  looked  out  of  place — oriental,  extravagant,  absurd. 

And  Clayton  Spencer  suffered.  To  draw  him  as  he  stood 
in  the  club  that  last  year  of  our  peace,  1916,  is  to  draw  him 
not  only  with  his  virtues  but  with  his  faults ;  his  over  emphasis 
on  small  things;  his  jealousy  for  his  dignity;  his  hatred  of 
the  conspicuous  and  the  unusual. 

When,  after  the  informal  manner  of  clubs,  the  party  went 
in  to  dinner,  he  was  having  one  of  the  bad  hours  of  his  life 
to  that  time.  And  when,  as  was  inevitable,  the  talk  of  the 
rather  serious  table  turned  to  the  war,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
Natalie,  gorgeous  and  painted,  represented  the  very  worst  of 
the  country  he  loved,  indifference,  extravagance,  and  osten 
tatious  display. 

But  Natalie  was  not  America.  Thank  God,  Natalie  was 
not  America. 

Already  with  the  men  she  was  having  a  triumph.  The 
women,  soberly  clad,  glanced  at  each  other  with  raised  eye 
brows  and  cynical  smiles.  Above  the  band,  already  playing 


144 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

in  the  ballroom,  Clayton  could  hear  old  Terry  Mackenzie  pay 
ing  Natalie  extravagant,  flagrant  compliments. 

"You  should  be  sitting  in  the  sun,  or  on  a  balcony,"  he  was 
saying,  his  eyes  twinkling.  "And  pretty  gentlemen  with  long 
curls  and  their  hats  tucked  under  their  arms  should  be  feed 
ing  you  nightingale  tongues,  or  whatever  it  is  you  eat." 

"Bugs,"  said  Natalie. 

"But— tell  me,"  Terry  bent  toward  her,  and  Mrs.  Terry 
kept  fascinated  eyes  on  him.  "Tell  me,  lovely  creature — 
aren't  peacocks  unlucky?" 

"Are  they?  What  bad  luck  can  happen  to  me  because  I 
dress  like  this?" 

"Frightfully  bad  luck,"  said  Terry,  jovially.  "Some  one 
will  undoubtedly  carry  you  away,  in  the  course  of  the  even 
ing,  and  go  madly  through  the  world  hunting  a  marble  balus 
trade  to  set  you  on.  I'll  do  it  myself  if  you'll  give  me  any 
encouragement." 

Perhaps,  had  Clayton  Spencer  been  entirely  honest  with 
himself  that  night,  he  would  have  acknowledged  that  he  had 
had  a  vague  hope  of  seeing  Audrey  at  the  club.  Cars  came 
up,  discharged  their  muffled  occupants  under  the  awning  and 
drove  away  again.  Delight  and  Mrs.  Haverford  arrived  and 
he  danced  with  Delight,  to  her  great  anxiety  lest  she  might 
not  dance  well.  Graham  came  very  late,  in  the  wake  of  Mar 
ion  Hayden. 

But  Audrey  did  not  appear. 

He  waited  until  the  New-year  came  in.  The  cotillion  was 
on  then,  and  the  favors  for  the  midnight  figure  were  gilt 
cornucopias  filled  with  loose  flowers.  The  lights  went  out 
for  a  moment  on  the  hour,  the  twelve  strokes  were  rung  on  a 
triangle  in  the  orchestra,  and  there  was  a  moment's  quiet. 
Then  the  light  blazed  again,  flowers  and  confetti  were  thrown, 
and  club  servants  in  livery  carried  round  trays  of  champagne. 

Clayton,  standing  glass  in  hand,  surveyed  the  scene  with 
a  mixture  of  satisfaction  and  impatience.  He  found  Terry 
Mackenzie  at  his  elbow. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 145 

"Great  party,  Gay,"  he  said.  "Well,  here's  to  1917,  and 
may  it  bring  luck." 

"May  it  bring  peace,"  said  Clayton,  and  raised  his  glass. 

Some  time  later  going  home  in  the  car  with  Mrs.  Mac 
kenzie,  quiet  and  slightly  grim  beside  him,  Terry  spoke  out  of 
a  thoughtful  silence. 

"There's  something  wrong  with  Clay,"  he  said.  "If  ever 
a  fellow  had  a  right  to  be  happy — he  has  a  queer  look.  Have 
you  noticed  it?" 

"Anybody  married  to  Natalie  Spencer  would  develop  what 
you  call  a  queer  look,"  she  replied,  tartly. 

"Don't  you  think  he  is  in  love  with  her?" 

"If  you  ask  me,  I  think  he  has  reached  the  point  where  he 
can't  bear  the  sight  of  her.  But  he  doesn't  know  it." 

"She's  pretty." 

"So  is  a  lamp-shade,"  replied  Mrs.  Terry,  acidly.  "Or  a 
kitten,  or  a  fancy  ice-cream.  But  you  wouldn't  care  to  be 
married  to  them,  would  you?" 

It  was  almost  dawn  when  Natalie  came  in.  Clayton  had 
not  been  asleep.  He  had  got  to  thinking  rather  feverishly  of 
the  New-year.  Without  in  any  way  making  a  resolution,  he 
had  determined  to  make  it  a  better  year  than  the  last;  to 
be  more  gentle  with  Natalie,  more  understanding  with  Gra 
ham;  to  use  his  new  prosperity  wisely;  to  forget  his  own 
lack  of  happiness  in  making  others  happy.  He  was  very 
vague  about  that.  The  search  of  the  ages  the  rector  had  called 
happiness,  and  one  found  it  by  giving  it. 

To  his  surprise,  Natalie  came  into  his  bedroom,  looking 
like  some  queer  oriental  bird,  vivid  and  strangely  unlike  her 
self. 

"I  saw  your  light.    Heavens,  what  a  party !" 

"I'm  glad  you  enjoyed  it.  I  hope  you  didn't  mind  my  not 
going  on." 

"I  wish  you  had.    Clay,  you'll  never  guess  what  happened." 

"Probably  not.    What?" 


146 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Well,  Audrey  just  made  it,  that's  all.  Funny!  I  wish 
you'd  seen  some  of  their  faces.  Of  course  she  was  disgrace 
ful,  but  she  took  it  off  right  away.  But  it  was  like  her — no 
one  else  would  have  dared." 

His  mouth  felt  dry.    Audrey — disgraceful! 

"It  was  in  the  stable,  you  know,  I  told  you.  And  just  at 
midnight  the  doors  opened  and  a  big  white  horse  leaped  in 
with  Audrey  on  his  back.  No  saddle — nothing.  She  was 
dressed  like  a  bare-back  rider  in  the  circus,  short  tulle  skirts 
and  tights.  They  nearly  mobbed  her  with  joy."  She  yawned. 
"Well,  I'm  off  to  bed." 

He  roused  himself. 

"A  happy  New-year,  my  dear." 

"Thanks,"  she  said,  and  wandered  out,  her  absurd  feathered 
tail  trailing  behind  her. 

He  lay  back  and  closed  his  eyes.  So  Audrey  had  done 
that,  Audrey,  who  had  been  in  his  mind  all  those  sleepless 
hours;  for  he  knew  now  that  back  of  all  his  resolutions  to 
do  better  had  been  the  thought  of  her. 

He  felt  disappointed  and  bitter.  The  sad  disillusion  of 
the  middle  years,  still  heroically  clinging  to  faiths  that  one 
after  another  destroyed  themselves,  was  his. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AUDREY  was  frightened.  She  did  not  care  a  penny's 
worth  what  her  little  world  thought.  Indeed,  she  knew 
that  she  had  given  it  a  new  thrill  and  so  had  won  its  enthu 
siastic  approval.  She  was  afraid  of  what  Clayton  would 
think. 

She  was  absurdly  quiet  and  virtuous  all  the  next  day, 
gathered  out  her  stockings  and  mended  them;  began  a  per 
sonal  expenditure  account  for  the  New-year,  heading  it  care 
fully  with  "darning  silk,  50  cents";  wrote  a  long  letter  to 
Chris,  and — listened  for  the  telephone.  If  only  he  would  call 
her,  so  she  could  explain.  Still,  what  could  she  explain  ?  She 
had  done  it  It  was  water  over  the  dam — and  it  is  no  fault 
of  Audrey's  that  she  would  probably  have  spelled  it  "damn." 

By  noon  she  was  fairly  abject.  She  did  not  analyze  her 
own  anxiety,  or  why  the  recollection  of  her  escapade,  which 
would  a  short  time  before  have  filled  her  with  a  sort  of  un 
holy  joy,  now  turned  her  sick  and  trembling. 

Then,  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  Clay  called  her  up. 
She  gasped  a  little  when  she  heard  his  voice. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Audrey,"  he  said,  "that  we  can  prob 
ably  use  the  girl  you  spoke  about,  rather  soon." 

"Very  well.  Thank  you.  Is — wasn't  there  something  else, 
too?" 

"Something  else  ?" 

"You  are  angry,  aren't  you?" 

He  hesitated. 

"Surprised.  Not  angry.  I  haven't  any  possible  right  to  be 
angry." 

"Will  you  come  up  and  let  me  tell  you  about  it,  Clay?" 

"I  don't  see  how  that  will  help  any." 

147 


148 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"It  will  help  me." 

He  laughed  at  that ;  her  new  humility  was  so  unlike  her. 

"Why,  of  course  I'll  come,  Audrey,"  he  said,  and  as  he 
rang  off  he  was  happier  than  he  had  been  all  day. 

He  was  coming.  Audrey  moved  around  the  little  room, 
adjusting  chairs,  rearranging  the  flowers  that  had  poured  in 
on  New-year's  day,  brushing  the  hearth.  And  as  she  worked 
she  whistled.  He  would  be  getting  into  the  car  now.  He 
would  be  so  far  on  his  way.  He  would  be  almost  there.  She 
ran  into  her  bedroom  and  powdered  her  nose,  with  her  lips 
puckered,  still  whistling,  and  her  heart  singing. 

But  he  scolded  her  thoroughly  at  first. 

"Why  on  earth  did  you  do  it/'  he  finished.  "I  still  can't 
understand.  I  see  you  one  day,  gravity  itself,  a  serious  young 
woman — as  you  are  to-day.  And  then  I  hear — it  isn't  like 
you,  Audrey." 

"Oh  yes,  it  is.  It's  exactly  like  me.  Like  one  me.  There 
are  others,  of  course." 

She  told  him  then,  making  pitiful  confession  of  her  own 
pride  and  her  anxiety  to  spare  Chris's  name. 

"I  couldn't  bear  to  have  them  suspect  he  had  gone  to  the 
war  because  of  a  girl.  Whatever  he  ran  away  from,  Clay, 
he's  doing  all  right  now." 

He  listened  gravely,  with,  toward  the  end,  a  jealousy  he 
would  not  have  acknowledged  even  to  himself.  Was  it  pos 
sible  that  she  still  loved  Chris?  Might  she  not,  after  the 
fashion  of  women,  be  building  a  new  and  idealized  Chris, 
now  that  he  had  gone  to  war,  out  of  his  very  common  clay? 

"He  has  done  splendidly,"  he  agreed. 

Again  the  warmth  and  coziness  of  the  little  room  enveloped 
him.  Audrey's  low  huskily  sweet  voice,  her  quick  smile,  her 
new  and  unaccustomed  humility,  and  the  odd  sense  of  her 
understanding,  comforted  him.  She  made  her  indefinite  ap 
peal  to  the  best  that  was  in  him. 

Nothing  so  ennobles  a  man  as  to  have  some  woman  believe 
in  his  nobility. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 149 

"Clay,"  she  said  suddenly,  "you  are  worrying  about  some 
thing." 

"Nothing  that  won't  straighten  out,  in  time." 

"Would  it  help  to  talk  about  it?' 

He  realized  that  he  had  really  come  to  her  to  talk  about  it. 
It  had  been  in  the  back  of  his  head  all  the  time. 

"I'm  rather  anxious  about  Graham." 

"Toots  Hayden?" 

"Partly." 

"I'm  afraid  she's  got  him,  Clay.  There  isn't  a  trick  in  the 
game  she  doesn't  know.  He  had  about  as  much  chance  as 
I  have  of  being  twenty  again.  She  wants  to  make  a  wealthy 
marriage,  and  she's  picked  on  Graham.  That's  all." 

"It  isn't  only  Marion.  I'm  afraid  there's  another  girl,  a 
girl  at  the  mill — his  stenographer.  I  have  no  proof  of  any 
thing.  In  fact,  I  don't  think  there  is  anything  yet.  She's 
in  love  with  him,  probably,  or  she  thinks  she  is.  I  happened 

on  them  together,  and  she  looked Of  course,  if  what  you 

say  about  Marion  is  true,  he  can  not  care  for  her,  even,  well, 
in  any  way." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Clay.  A  man — especially  a  boy — can  love 
a  half-dozen  girls.  He  can  be  crazy  about  any  girl  he  is  with. 
It  may  not  be  love,  but  it  plays  the  same  tricks  with  him  that 
the  real  thing  does." 

"I  can't  believe  that." 

"No.    You  wouldn't." 

She  leaned  back  and  watched  him.  How  much  of  a  boy  he 
was  himself,  anyhow!  And  yet  how  little  he  understood  the 
complicated  problems  of  a  boy  like  Graham,  irresponsible  but 
responsive,  rich  without  labor,  with  time  for  the  sort  of  dal 
liance  Clay  himself  at  the  same  age  had  had  neither  leisure 
nor  inclination  to  indulge. 

He  was  wandering  about  the  room,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
his  head  bent.  When  he  stopped: 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  the  girl,  Audrey?" 

"Get  rid  of  her.    That's  easy." 


150 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Not  so  easy  as  it  sounds." 

He  told  her  of  Dunbar  and  the  photographs,  of  Rudolph 
Klein,  and  the  problem  as  he  saw  it. 

"So  there  I  am,"  he  finished.  "If  I  let  her  go,  I  lose  one 
of  the  links  in  Dunbar's  chain.  If  I  keep  her " 

"Can't  Natalie  talk  to  him?  Sometimes  a  woman  can  get 
to  the  bottom  of  these  things  when  a  man  can't.  He  might 
tell  her  all  about  it." 

"Possibly.     But  I  think  it  unlikely  Natalie  would  tell  me/' 

She  leaned  over  and  patted  his  hand  impulsively. 

"What  devils  we  women  are!"  she  said.  "Now  and  then 
one  of  us  gets  what  she  deserves.  That's  me.  And  now  and 
then  one  of  us  get's  something  she  doesn't  deserve.  And  that's 
Natalie.  She's  over-indulgent  to  Graham." 

"He  is  all  she  has." 

"She  has  you." 

Something  in  her  voice  made  him  turn  and  look  at  her. 

"That  ought  to  be  something,  you  know,"  she  added.  And 
laughed  a  little. 

"Does  Natalie  pay  his  debts?" 

"I  rather  think  so." 

But  that  was  a  subject  he  could  not  go  on  with, 

"The  fault  is  mine.  I  know  my  business  better  than  I  know 
how  to  handle  my  life,  or  my  family.  I  don't  know  why  I 
^rouble  you  with  it  all,  anyhow.  You  have  enough."  He  hesi 
tated.  "That's  not  exactly  true,  either.  I  do  know.  I'm  re 
lying  on  your  woman's  wit  to  help  me.  I'm  wrong  some- 
How." 

"About  Graham?" 

"I  have  a  curious  feeling  that  I  am  losing  him.  I  can't 
ask  for  his  confidence.  I  can't,  apparently,  even  deserve  it. 
I  see  him,  day  after  day,  with  all  the  good  stuff  there  is  in 
him,  working  as  little  as  he  can,  drinking  more  than  he  should, 
out  half  the  night,  running  into  debt — good  heavens,  Audrey, 
what  can  I  do  ?" 

She  hesitated. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 151 

"Of  course,  you  know  one  thing  that  would  save  him, 
Clay?" 

"What?" 

"Our  getting  into  the  war." 

"I  ought  not  to  have  to  lose  my  boy  in  order  to  find  him. 
But — we  are  going  to  be  in  it." 

He  had  risen  and  was  standing,  an  elbow  on  the  mantel 
piece,  looking  down  at  her. 

"I  suppose  every  man  wonders,  once  in  a  while,  how  he'd 
conduct  himself  in  a  crisis.  When  the  Lusitania  went  down 
I  dare  say  a  good  many  fellows  wondered  if  they'd  have  been 
able  to  keep  their  coward  bodies  out  of  the  boats.  I  know 
I  did.  And  I  wonder  about  myself  now.  What  can  I  do  if 
we  go  into  the  war?  I  couldn't  do  a  forced  march  of  more 
than  five  miles.  I  can't  drill,  or  whatever  they  call  it.  I  can 
shoot  clay  pigeons,  but  I  don't  believe  I  could  hit  a  German 
coming  at  me  with  a  bayonet  at  twenty  feet.  I'd  be  pretty 
much  of  a  total  loss.  Yet  I'll  want  to  do  something." 

And  when  she  sat,  very  silent,  looking  into  the  fire :  "You 
see,  you  think  it  absurd  yourself." 

"Hardly  absurd,"  she  roused  herself  to  look  up  at  him.  "If 
it  is,  it's  the  sort  of  splendid  absurdity  I  am  proud  of.  I 
was  wondering  what  Natalie  would  say." 

"I  don't  believe  it  lies  between  a  man  and  his  wife.  It's 
between  him  and  his  God." 

He  was  rather  ashamed  of  that,  however  and  soon  after 
he  went  away. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

NATALIE  SPENCER  was  finding  life  full  of  interest 
that  winter.     Now  and  then  she  read  the  headings  in 
the  newspapers,  not  because  she  was  really  interested,  but 
that  she  might  say,  at  the  dinner-party  which  was  to  her  the 
proper  end  of  a  perfect  day : 

"What  do  you  think  of  Turkey  declaring  her  independ 
ence?" 

Or: 

"I  see  we  have  taken  the  Etoile  Wood." 

Clayton  had  overheard  her  more  than  once,  and  had  mar 
veled  at  the  dexterity  with  which,  these  leaders  thrown  out, 
she  was  able  to  avoid  committing  herself  further. 

The  new  house  engrossed  her.  She  was  seeing  a  great 
deal  of  Rodney,  too,  and  now  and  then  she  had  fancied  that 
there  was  a  different  tone  in  Rodney's  voice  when  he  ad 
dressed  her.  She  never  analyzed  that  tone,  or  what  it  sug 
gested,  but  it  gave  her  a  new  interest  in  life.  She  was  always 
marceled,  massaged,  freshly  manicured.  And  she  had  found 
a  new  facial  treatment.  Clayton,  in  his  room  at  night,  could 
hear  the  sharp  slapping  of  flesh  on  flesh,  as  Madeleine  gently 
pounded  certain  expensive  creams  into  the  skin  of  her  face 
and  neck. 

She  refused  all  forms  of  war  activity,  although  now  and 
then  she  put  some  appeal  before  Clayton  and  asked  him  if 
he  cared  to  send  a  check.  He  never  suggested  that  she  answer 
any  of  these  demands  personally,  after  an  experience  early 
in  the  winter. 

"Why  don't  you  send  it  yourself  ?"  he  had  asked. 
"Wouldn't  you  like  it  to  go  in  your  name  ?" 

"It  doesn't  matter.    I  don't  know  any  of  the  committee." 

152 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 153 

He  had  tried  to  explain  what  he  meant. 

"You  might  like  to  feel  that  you  are  doing  something." 

"I  thought  my  allowance  was  only  to  dress  on.  If  I'm  to 
attend  to  charities,  too,  you'll  have  to  increase  it." 

"But,"  he  argued  patiently,  "if  you  only  sent  them  twenty- 
five  dollars,  and  did  without  some  little  thing  to  do  it,  you'd 
feel  rather  more  as  though  you  were  giving,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Twenty-five  dollars!     And  be  laughed  at!" 

He  had  given  in  then. 

"If  I  put  an  extra  thousand  dollars  to  your  account  to 
morrow,  will  you  check  it  out  to  this  fund?" 

"It's  too  much." 

"Will  you?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  she  had  agreed,  indifferently.  And  he 
had  notified  her  that  the  money  was  in  the  bank.  But  two 
months  later  the  list  of  contributors  was  published,  and 
neither  his  name  nor  Natalie's  was  among  them. 

Toward  personal  service  she  had  no  inclination  whatever. 
She  would  promise  anything,  but  the  hour  of  fulfilling  always 
found  her  with  something  else  to  do.  Yet  she  had  kindly  im 
pulses,  at  times,  when  something  occurred  to  take  her  mind 
from  herself.  She  gave  liberally  to  street  mendicants.  She 
sent  her  car  to  be  used  by  those  of  her  friends  who  had  none. 
She  was  lavish  with  flowers  to  the  sick — although  Clayton 
paid  her  florist  bills. 

She  was  lavish  with  money — but  never  with  herself. 

In  the  weeks  after  the  opening  of  the  new  year  Clayton 
found  himself  watching  her.  He  wondered  sometimes  just 
what  went  on  in  her  mind  during  the  hours  when  she  sat,  her 
hands  folded,  gazing  into  space.  He  could  not  tell.  He  sur 
mised  her  planning,  always  planning;  the  new  house,  a  gown, 
a  hat,  a  party. 

But  late  in  January  he  began  to  think  that  she  was  plan 
ning  something  else.  Old  Terry  Mackenzie  had  been  there 
one  night,  and  he  had  asserted  not  only  that  war  was  com- 


154 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

ing,  but  that  we  would  be  driven  to  conscription  to  raise  an 
army. 

"They've  all  had  to  come  to  it,"  he  insisted.  "And  we  will, 
as  sure  as  God  made  little  fishes.  You  can't  raise  a  million 
volunteers  for  a  war  that's  three  thousand  miles  away." 

"You  mean,  conscription  among  the  laboring  class?"  Nat 
alie  had  asked  naively,  and  there  had  been  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"Not  at  all,"  Terry  had  said.  And  chuckled.  "This  war, 
if  it  comes,  is  every  man's  burden,  rich  and  poor.  Only  the 
rich  will  give  most,  because  they  have  most  to  give." 

"I  think  that's  ridiculous,"  Natalie  had  said. 

It  was  after  that  that  Clayton  began  to  wonder  what  she 
was  planning. 

He  came  home  late  one  afternoon  to  find  that  they  were 
spending  the  evening  in,  and  to  find  a  very  serious  Natalie 
waiting,  when  he  came  down-stairs  dressed  for  dinner.  She 
made  an  effort  to  be  conversational,  but  it  was  a  failure.  He 
was  uneasily  aware  that  she  was  watching  him,  inspecting, 
calculating,  choosing  her  moment.  But  it  was  not  until  they 
were  having  coffee  that  she  spoke. 

"I'm  uneasy  about  Graham,  Clay." 

He  looked  up  quickly. 

"Yes  ?" 

"I  think  he  ought  to  go  away  somewhere." 

"He  ought  to  stay  here,  and  make  a  man  of  himself,"  he 
came  out,  almost  in  spite  of  himself.  He  knew  well  enough 
that  such  a  note  always  roused  Natalie's  antagonism,  and  he 
waited  for  the  storm.  But  none  came. 

"He's  not  doing  very  well,  is  he?" 

"He's  not  failing  entirely.  But  he  gives  the  best  of  himself 
outside  the  mill.  That's  all." 

She  puzzled  him.    Had  she  heard  of  Marion? 

"Don't  you  think,  if  he  was  away  from  this  silly  crowd  he 
plays  with,  as  he  calls  it,  that  he  would  be  better  off?" 

"Where,  for  instance  ?"    - 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  155 

"You  keep  an  agent  in  England.  He  could  go  there.  Or 
to  Russia,  if  the  Russian  contract  goes  through." 

He  was  still  puzzled. 

"But  why  England  or  Russia?" 

"Anywhere  out  of  tJhis  country." 

"He  doesn't  have  to  leave  this  country  to  get  away  from  a 
designing  woman." 

From  her  astonished  expression,  he  knew  that  he  had  been 
wrong.  She  was  not  trying  to  get  him  away  from  Marion. 
From  what? 

She  bent  forward,  her  face  set  hard. 

"What  woman?" 

Well,  it  was  out.  She  might  as  well  know  it.  "Don't  you 
think  it  possible,  Natalie,  that  he  may  intend  to  marry  Marion 
Hayden?" 

There  was  a  very  unpleasant  half-hour  after  that.  Marion 
was  a  parasite  of  the  rich.  She  had  abused  Natalie's  hos 
pitality.  She  was  designing.  She  played  bridge  for  her  dress 
money.  She  had  ensnared  the  boy. 

And  then : 

"That  settles  it,  I  should  think.  He  ought  to  leave  America. 
If  you  have  a  single  thought  for  his  welfare  you'll  send  him 
to  England." 

"Then  you  hadn't  known  about  Marion  when  you  proposed 
that  before?" 

"No.  I  knew  he  was  not  doing  well.  And  I'm  anxious. 
After  all,  he's  my  boy.  He  is " 

"I  know,"  he  supplemented  gravely.  "He  is  all  you  have. 
But  I  still  don't  understand  why  he  must  leave  America." 

It  was  not  until  she  had  gone  up-stairs  to  her  room,  leav 
ing  him  uneasily  pacing  the  library  floor,  that  he  found  the 
solution.  Old  Terry  Mackenzie  and  his  statement  about  con 
scription.  Natalie  wanted  Graham  sent  out  of  the  country, 
so  he  would  be  safe.  She  would  purchase  for  him  a  shameful 
immunity,  if  war  came.  She  would  stultify  the  boy  to  keep 
him  safe.  In  that  hour  of  clear  vision  he  saw  how  she  had 


156 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

always  stultified  the  boy,  to  keep  him  safe.  He  saw  her  life 
a  series  of  small  subterfuges,  of  petty  indulgences,  of  little 
plots  against  himself,  all  directed  toward  securing  Graham 
immunity — from  trouble  at  school,  from  debt,  from  his  own 
authority. 

A  wave  of  unreasoning  anger  surged  over  him,  but  with  it 
there  was  pity,  too;  pity  for  the  narrowness  of  her  life  and 
her  mind,  pity  for  her  very  selfishness.  And  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  felt  a  shamefaced  pity  for  himself.  He 
shook  himself  violently.  When  a  man  got  sorry  for  him 
self 


CHAPTER  XX 

RUDOLPH  KLEIN  had  not  for  a  moment  believed  Anna's 
story  about  the  watch,  and  on  the  day  after  he  dis 
covered  it  on  her  wrist  he  verified  his  suspicions.  During 
his  noon  hour  he  went  up-town  and,  with  the  confident  swag 
ger  of  a  certain  type  of  man  who  feels  himself  out  of  place, 
entered  the  jeweler's  shop  in  question. 

He  had  to  wait  for  some  little  time,  and  he  spent  it  in 
surveying  contemptuously  the  contents  of  the  show-cases. 
That  even  his  wildest  estimate  fell  far  short  of  their  value  he 
did  not  suspect,  but  his  lips  curled.  This  was  where  the 
money  earned  by  honest  workmen  was  spent,  that  women 
might  gleam  with  such  gewgaws.  Wall  Street  bought  them, 
Wall  Street  which  was  forcing  this  country  into  the  war  to 
protect  its  loans  to  the  Allies.  America  was  to  pull  Eng 
land's  chestnuts  out  of  the  fire  that  women,  and  yet  more 
women,  might  wear  those  strings  of  pearls,  those  glittering 
diamond  baubles. 

Into  his  crooked  mind  there  flashed  a  line  from  a  speech 
at  the  Third  Street  hall  the  night  before :  "War  is  hell.  Let 
those  who  want  to,  go  to  hell." 

So — Wall  Street  bought  pearls  for  its  women,  and  the 
dissolute  sons  of  the  rich  bought  gold  wrist-watches  for  girls 
they  wanted  to  seduce.  The  expression  on  his  face  was  so 
terrible  that  the  clerk  behind  the  counter,  waiting  to  find  what 
he  wanted,  was  startled. 

"I  want  to  look  at  gold  wrist-watches,"  he  said.  And  eyed 
the  clerk  for  a  trace  of  patronage. 

"Ladies'?" 

"Yes." 

He  finally  found  one  that  was  a  duplicate  of  Anna's,  and 

i57 


£58 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

examined  it  carefully.  Yes,  it  was  the  same,  the  maker's 
name  on  the  dial,  the  space  for  the  monogram  on  the  back, 
everything. 

"How  much  is  this  one  ?" 

"One  hundred  dollars." 

He  almost  dropped  it.  A  hundred  dollars!  Then  he  re 
membered  Anna's  story. 

"Have  you  any  gold-filled  ones  that  look  like  this  ?" 

"We  do  not  handle  gold-filled  cases." 

He  put  it  down,  and  turned  to  go.    Then  he  stopped. 

"Don't  sell  on  the  installment  plan,  either,  I  suppose?''  The 
sneer  in  his  voice  was  clearer  than  his  anxiety.  In  his  mind, 
he  already  knew  the  answer. 

"Sorry.    No." 

He  went  out.  So  he  had  been  right.  That  young  skunk 
had  paid  a  hundred  dollars  for  a  watch  for  Anna.  To  Ru 
dolph  it  meant  but  one  thing. 

That  had  been  early  in  January.  For  some  days  he  kept  his 
own  counsel,  thinking,  planning,  watching.  He  was  jealous 
of  Graham,  but  with  a  calculating  jealousy  that  set  him  won 
dering  how  to  turn  his  knowledge  to  his  own  advantage.  And 
Anna's  lack  of  liberty  comforted  him  somewhat.  He  couldn't 
meet  her  outside  the  mill,  at  least  not  without  his  know 
ing  it. 

He  established  a  system  of  espionage  over  her  that  drove 
her  almost  to  madness. 

"What're  you  hanging  round  for  ?"  she  would  demand  when 
he  stepped  forward  at  the  mill  gate.  "D'you  suppose  I  never 
want  to  be  by  myself  ?" 

Or: 

"You  just  go  away,  Rudolph  Klein.  I'm  going  up  with 
some  of  the  girls." 

But  she  never  lost  him.  He  was  beside  her  or  at  her  heels, 
his  small  crafty  eyes  on  her.  When  he  walked  behind  her 
there  was  a  sensuous  gleam  in  them. 

After  a  few  weeks  she  became  terrified.    There  was  a  cold- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 159 

ness  of  deviltry  in  him,  she  knew.  And  he  had  the  whip-hand. 
She  was  certain  he  knew  about  the  watch,  and  her  imperti 
nence  masked  an  agony  of  fear.  Suppose  he  went  to  her 
father?  Why,  if  he  knew,  didn't  he  go  to  her  father? 

She  suspected  him,  but  she  did  not  know  of  what.  She 
knew  he  was  an  enemy  of  all  government,  save  that  of  the 
mob,  that  he  was  an  incendiary,  a  firebrand  who  set  on  fire 
the  brutish  passions  of  a  certain  type  of  malcontents.  She 
knew,  for  all  he  pretended  to  be  the  voice  of  labor,  he  no  more 
represented  the  honest  labor  of  the  country  than  he  repre 
sented  law  and  order. 

She  watched  him  sometimes,  at  the  table,  when  on  Sun 
days  he  ate  the  mid-day  meal  with  them;  his  thin  hatchet 
face,  his  prominent  epiglottis.  He  wore  a  fresh  cotton  shirt 
then,  with  a  flaming  necktie,  but  he  did  not  clean  his  finger 
nails.  And  his  talk  was  always  of  tearing  down,  never  of 
building  up. 

"Just  give  us  time,  and  we'll  show  them,"  he  often  said.. 
And  "them"  was  always  the  men  higher  up. 

He  hated  policemen.  He  and  Herman  had  had  many  argu 
ments  about  policemen.  Herman  was  not  like  Rudolph.  He 
believed  in  law  and  order.  He  even  believed  in  those  higher 
up.  But  he  believed  very  strongly  in  the  fraternity  of  labor. 
Until  the  first  weeks  of  that  New-year,  Herman  Klein,  out 
side  the  tyranny  of  his  home  life,  represented  very  fairly  a 
certain  type  of  workman,  believing  in  the  dignity  and  integ 
rity  of  his  order.  But,  with  his  failure  to  relocate  himself, 
something  went  wrong  in  Herman.  He  developed,  in  his  ob 
stinate,  stubborn,  German  head  a  suspicion  of  the  land  of  his 
adoption.  He  had  never  troubled  to  understand  it.  He  had 
taken  it  for  granted,  as  he  took  for  granted  that  Anna  should 
work  and  turn  over  her  money  to  him. 

Now  it.  began  to  ask  things  of  him.  Not  much.  A  delega 
tion  of  women  came  around  one  night  and  asked  him  for 
money  for  Belgian  Relief.  The  delegation  came,  because  no 
one  woman  would  venture  alone. 


i6o DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"I  have  no  money  for  Belgians,"  he  said.  He  would  not  let 
them  come  in.  "Why  should  I  help  the  Belgians  ?  Liars  and 
hypocrites !" 

The  story  went  about  the  neighborhood,  and  he  knew  it.  He 
cared  nothing  for  popularity,  but  he  resented  losing  his  stand 
ing  in  the  community.  And  all  along  he  was  convinced  that  he 
was  nght ;  that  the  Belgians  had  lied.  There  had  been,  in  the 
Germany  he  had  left,  no  such  will  to  wanton  killing.  These 
people  were  ignorant.  Out  of  the  depths  of  their  ignorance 
they  talked. 

He  read  only  German  newspapers.  In  the  little  room  back 
of  Gustav  Shroeder's  he  met  only  Germans.  And  always,  at 
his  elbow,  there  was  Rudolph. 

Until  the  middle  of  January  Rudolph  had  not  been  able  to 
get  him  to  one  of  his  incendiary  meetings.  Then  one  cold 
night  while  Anna  sewed  by  the  lamp  inside  the  little  house, 
Rudolph  and  Herman  walked  in  the  frozen  garden,  Herman 
with  his  pipe,  Rudolph  with  the  cheap  cigarets  he  used  inces 
santly.  Anna  opened  the  door  a  crack  and  listened  at  first. 
She  was  watchful  of  Rudolph,  always,  those  days.  But  the 
subject  was  not  Anna. 

"You  think  we  get  in,  then  ?"  Herman  asked. 

"Sure." 

"But  for  what?" 

"So  'Spencers'  can  make  more  money  out  of  it,"  said  Ru 
dolph  bitterly.  "And  others  like  them.  But  they  and  their 
kind  don't  do  the  dying.  It's  the  workers  that  go  and  die. 
Look  at  Germany!" 

"Yes.    It  is  so  in  Germany." 

"All  this  talk  about  democracy — that's  bunk.  Just  plain 
bunk.  Why  should  the  workers  in  this  country  kill  the  work 
ers  in  another?  Why?  To  make  money  for  capital — more 
money." 

"Ja,"  Herman  assented.  "That  is  what  war  is.  Always  the 
same.  I  came  here  to  get  away  from  war." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 161 

"Well,  you  didn't  get  far  enough.  You  left  a  king  behind, 
but  we've  got  a  Czar  here." 

Herman  was  slowly,  methodically,  following  an  earlier  train 
of  thought. 

"I  am  a  workman,"  he  said.  "I  would  not  fight  against 
other  workmen.  Just  as  I,  a  German,  will  not  fight  against 
other  Germans." 

"But  you  would  sit  here,  on  the  hill,  and  do  nothing." 

"What  can  I  do?    One  man,  and  with  no  job." 

"Come  to  the  meeting  to-night." 

"You  and  your  meetings  !'J  the  old  German  said  impatiently. 
"You  talk.  That's  all." 

Rudolph  lowered  his  voice. 

"You  think  we  only  talk,  eh?  Well,  you  come  and  hear 
some  things.  Talk!  You  come,"  he  coaxed,  changing  his 
tone.  "And  we'll  have  some  beer  and  schnitzel  at  Gus's  after. 
My  treat.  How  about  it  ?" 

Old  Herman  assented.  He  was  tired  of  the  house,  tired  of 
the  frozen  garden,  tired  of  scolding  the  slovenly  girl  who 
pottered  around  all  day  in  a  boudoir  cap  and  slovenly  wrapper. 
Tired  of  Anna's  rebellious  face  and  pert  answers. 

He  went  inside  the  house  and  put  a  sweater  under  his  coat, 
and  got  his  cap. 

"I  go  out,"  he  said,  to  the  impassive  figure  under  the  lamp. 
"You  will  stay  in." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.    I  may  take  a  walk." 

"You  will  stay  in,"  he  repeated,  and  followed  Rudolph  out 
side.  There  he  reached  in,  secured  the  key,  and  locked  the 
door  on  the  outside.  Anna,  listening  and  white  with  anger, 
heard  his  ponderous  steps  going  around  to  the  back  door,  and 
the  click  as  he  locked  that  one  also. 

"Beast !"  she  muttered.    "German  schwein." 

It  was  after  midnight  when  she  heard  him  coming  back. 
She  prepared  to  leap  out  of  her  bed  when  he  came  up-stairs, 
to  confront  him  angrily  and  tell  him  she  was  through.  She 
was  leaving  home.  But  long  after  she  had  miserably  cried 


i_6_2 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

herself  to  sleep,  Herman  sat  below,  his  long-stemmed  pipe  in 
his  teeth,  his  stockinged  feet  spread  to  the  dying  fire. 

In  that  small  guarded  hall  that  night  he  had  learned  many 
surprising  things,  there  and  at  Gus's  afterward.  The  Father 
land's  war  was  already  being  fought  in  America,  and  not  only 
by  Germans.  The  workers  of  the  world  had  banded  themselves 
together,  according  to  the  night's  speakers.  And  because  they 
were  workers  they  would  not  fight  the  German  workers.  It 
was  all  perfectly  simple.  With  the  cooperation  of  the  work 
ers  of  the  world,  which  recognized  no  country  but  a  vast 
brotherhood  of  labor,  it  was  possible  to  end  war,  all  war. 

In  the  meantime,  while  all  the  workers  all  over  the  world 
were  being  organized,  one  prevented  as  much  as  possible  any 
assistance  going  to  capitalistic  England.  One  did  some  simple 
thing — started  a  strike,  or  sawed  lumber  too  short,  or  burned 
a  wheat-field,  or  put  nails  in  harvesting  machinery,  or  missent 
perishable  goods,  or  changed  signal-lights  on  railroads,  or 
drove  copper  nails  into  fruit-trees,  so  they  died.  This  was  a 
pity,  the  fruit-trees.  But  at  least  they  did  not  furnish  fruit 
for  Germany's  enemies. 

So  each  one  did  but  one  thing,  and  that  small,  so  small  that 
it  was  difficult  to  discover.  But  there  were  two  hundred  thou 
sand  men  to  do  them,  according  to  Rudolph,  and  that  meant 
a  great  deal. 

Only  one  thing  about  the  meeting  Herman  had  not  liked. 
There  were  packages  of  wicked  photographs  going  about. 
Filthy  things.  When  they  came  to  him  he  had  dropped  them 
on  the  floor.  What  had  they  to  do  with  Germany's  enemies, 
or  preventing  America  from  going  into  the  war  ? 

Rudolph  laughed  when  he  dropped  them. 

'"'They  won't  bite  you  !"  he  had  said,  and  had  stooped  to  pick 
them  up.  But  Herman  had  kept  his  foot  on  them. 

So — America  would  go  into  the  war  against  the  Fatherland, 
unless  many  hundreds  of  thousands  did  each  their  little  bit. 
And  if  they  did  not,  America  would  go  in,  and  fight  for  Eng 
land  to  control  the  seas,  and  the  Spencer  plant  would  make  mil- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 163 

lions  of  shells  that  honest  German  workers,  sweat -brothers  of 
the  world,  might  die. 

He  remembered  word  for  word  the  peroration  of  the  even 
ing's  speech. 

"We  would  extend  the  hand  of  brotherhood  to  the  so-called 
enemy,  and  strangle  the  cry  for  war  in  the  fat  white  throats  of 
the  blood-bloated  money-lenders  of  Wall  Street,  before  it  be 
came  articulate." 

He  was  very  tired.  He  stooped  and  picked  up  his  shoes,  and 
with  them  in  his  hand,  drawn  to  his  old-time  military  erect- 
ness,  he  stood  for  some  time  before  the  gilt-framed  picture  on 
the  wrall.  Then  he  went  slowly  and  ponderously  up-stairs  to 
bed. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

FROM  the  moment,  the  day  before  Christmas,  when  Gra 
ham  had  taken  the  little  watch  from  his  pocket  and  fas 
tened  it  on  Anna's  wrist,  he  was  rather  uneasily  aware  that  she 
had  become  his  creature.  He  had  had  no  intention  of  buying 
Anna.  He  was  certainly  not  in  love  with  her.  But  he  found 
her  amusing  and  at  times  comforting. 

He  had,  of  course,  expected  to  lose  her  after  the  unlucky 
day  when  Clayton  had  found  them  together,  but  Dunbar  had 
advised  that  she  be  kept  on  for  a  time  at  least.  Mentally 
Graham  figured  that  the  first  of  January  would  see  her  gone, 
and  the  thought  of  a  Christmas  present  for  her  was  partly 
compounded  of  remorse. 

He  had  been  buying  a  cigaret  case  for  Marion  when  the 
thought  came  to  him.  He  had  not  bought  a  Christmas  pres 
ent  for  a  girl,  except  flowers,  since  the  first  year  he  was  at 
college.  He  had  sent  Delight  one  that  year,  a  half-dozen  little 
leather-bound  books  of  poetry.  What  a  precious  young  prig 
he  must  have  been !  He  knew  now  that  girls  only  pretended 
to  care  for  books.  They  wanted  jewelry,  and  they  got  past 
the  family  with  it  by  pretending  it  was  not  real,  or  that  they 
had  bought  it  out  of  their  allowances.  One  of  Toots'  friends 
was  taking  a  set  of  silver  fox  from  a  man,  and  she  was  as 
straight  as  a  die.  Oh,  he  knew  girls,  now. 

The  next  day  he  asked  Anna  Klein :  "What  would  you  like 
for  Christmas  ?" 

Anna,  however,  had  insisted  that  she  did  not  want  a  Christ 
mas  present. 

Later  on,  however,  she  had  seen  a  watch  one  of  the  girls  on 
the  hill  had  bought  for  twelve  dollars,  and  on  his  further 
insistence  a  day  or  so  later  she  had  said : 

I6JL 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 165 

"Do  you  really  want  to  know  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"You  oughtn't  to  spend  money  on  me,  you  know." 

"You  let  me  attend  to  that.    Now,  out  with  it !" 

So  she  told  him  rather  nervously,  for  she  felt  that  twelve 
dollars  was  a  considerable  sum.  He  had  laughed,  and  agreed 
instantly,  but  when  he  went  to  buy  it  he  found  himself  paying 
a  price  that  rather  startled  him. 

"Don't  you  lose  it,  young  lady!"  he  admonished  her  when, 
the  day  before  Christmas,  he  fastened  it  on  her  wrist.  Then 
he  had  stooped  down  to  kiss  her,  and  the  intensity  of  feeling 
in  her  face  had  startled  him.  "It's  a  good  watch,"  he  had  said, 
rather  uneasily ;  "no  excuse  for  your  being  late  now !" 

All  the  rest  of  the  day  she  was  radiant. 

He  meant  well  enough  even  then.  He  had  never  pretended 
to  love  her.  He  accepted  her  adoration,  petted  and  teased  her 
in  return,  worked  off  his  occasional  ill  humors  on  her,  was  in 
deed  conscious  sometimes  that  he  was  behaving  extremely  well 
in  keeping  things  as  they  were. 

But  by  the  middle  of  January  he  began  to  grow  uneasy.  The 
atmosphere  at  Marion's  was  bad ;  there  was  a  knowledge  of 
life  plus  an  easy  toleration  of  certain  human  frailties  that  was 
as  insidious  as  a  slow  fever.  The  motto  of  live  and  let  live 
prevailed.  And  Marion  refused  to  run  away  with  him  and 
marry  him,  or  to  let  him  go  to  his  father. 

In  his  office  all  day  long  there  was  Anna,  so  yielding,  so 
surely  his  to  take  if  he  wished.  Already  he  knew  that  things 
there  must  either  end  or  go  forward.  Human  emotions  do  not 
stand  still ;  they  either  advance  or  go  back,  and  every  impulse 
of  his  virile  young  body  was  urging  him  on. 

He  made  at  last  an  almost  frenzied  appeal  to  Marion  to 
marry  him  at  once,  but  she  refused  flatly. 

"I'm  not  going  to  ruin  you,"  she  said.  "If  you  can't  bring 
your  people  round,  we'll  just  have  to  wait." 

"They'd  be  all  right,  once  it  is  done." 

"Not  if  I  know  your  father !    Oh,  he'd  be  all  right — in  ten 


1 66 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

years  or  so.     But  what  about  the  next  two  or  three?    We'd 
have  to  live,  wouldn't  we  ?" 

He  lay  awake  most  of  the  night  thinking  things  over.  Did 
she  really  care  for  him,  as  Anna  cared,  for  instance  ?  She  was 
always  talking  about  their  having  to  live.  If  they  couldn't 
manage  on  his  salary  for  a  while,  then  it  was  because  Marion 
did  not  care  enough  to  try. 

For  the  first  time  he  began  to  question  Marion's  feeling  for 
him.  She  had  been  rather  patronizing  him  lately.  He  had 
overheard  her,  once,  speaking  of  him  as  a  nice  kid,  and  it 
rankled.  In  sheer  assertion  of  his  manhood  he  met  Anna 
Klein  outside  the  mill  at  the  noon  hour,  the  next  day,  and  took 
her  for  a  little  ride  in  his  car.  After  that  he  repeatedly  did 
the  same  thing,  choosing  inf  requented  streets  and  roads,  dining 
with  her  sometimes  at  a  quiet  hotel  out  on  the  Freeland  road. 

"How  do  you  get  away  with  this  to  your  father  ?"  he  asked 
her  once. 

"Tell  him  you're  getting  ready  to  move  out  to  the  new  plant, 
and  we're  working.  He's  not  round  much  in  the  evenings  now. 
He's  at  meetings,  or  swilling  beer  at  Gus's  saloon.  They're  a 
bad  lot,  Graham,  that  crowd  at  Gus's." 

"How  do  you  mean,  bad?" 

"Well,  they're  Germans,  for  one  thing,  the  sort  that  shouts 
about  the  Fatherland.  They  make  me  sick." 

"Let's  forget  them,  honey,"  said  Graham,  and  reaching 
under  the  table-cloth,  caught  and  held  one  of  her  hands. 

He  was  beginning  to  look  at  things  with  the  twisted  vision 
of  Marion's  friends.  He  intended  only  to  flirt  a  little  with 
Anna  Klein,  but  he  considered  that  he  was  extremely  virtuous 
and,  perhaps,  a  bit  of  a  fool  for  letting  things  go  at  that. 
Once,  indeed,  Tommy  Hale  happened  on  them  in  a  road-house, 
sitting  very  quietly  with  a  glass  of  beer  before  Graham  and  a 
lemonade  in  front  of  Anna,  and  had  winked  at  him  as  though 
he  had  received  him  into  the  brotherhood  of  those  who 
seeing  life. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  167 

Then,  near  the  end  of  January,  events  took  another  step 
forward.  Rudolph  Klein  was  discharged  from  the  mill. 

Clayton,  coming  down  one  morning,  found  the  manager, 
Hutchinson,  and  Dunbar  in  his  office.  The  two  men  had  had 
a  difference  of  opinion,  and  the  matter  was  laid  before  him. 

"He  is  a  constant  disturbing  element/'  Hutchinson  finished. 
"I  understand  Mr.  Dunbar's  position,  but  we  can't  afford  to 
have  the  men  thrown  into  a  ferment,  constantly." 

"If  you  discharge  him  you  rouse  his  suspicions  and  those 
of  his  gang,"  said  Dunbar,  sturdily. 

"There  is  a  gang,  then  ?" 

"A  gang!    My  God!" 

In  the  end,  however,  Clayton  decided  to  let  Rudolph  go. 
Hutchinson  was  insistent.  Production  was  falling  down.  One 
or  two  accidents  to  the  machinery  lately  looked  like  sabotage. 
He  had  found  a  black  cat  crudely  drawn  on  the  cement  pave 
ment  outside  his  office-door  that  very  morning,  the  black  cat 
being  the  symbol  of  those  I.  W.  W.'s  who  advocated  destruc 
tion. 

"What  about  the  girl?"  Dunbar  asked,  when  the  manager 
had  gone. 

"I  have  kept  her,  against  my  better  judgment,  Mr.  Dunbar." 

For  just  a  moment  Dunbar  hesitated.  He  knew  certain 
things  that  Clayton  Spencer  did  not,  things  that  it  was  his 
business  to  know.  The  girl  might  be  valuable  one  of  these 
days.  She  was  in  love  with  young  Spencer.  The  time  might 
come  when  he,  Dunbar,  would  need  to  capitalize  that  love  and 
use  it  against  Rudolph  and  the  rest  of  the  crowd  that  met 
in  the  little  room  behind  Shroeder's  saloon.  It  was  too  bad, 
in  a  way.  He  was  sorry  for  this  man  with  the  strong,  re 
pressed  face  and  kindly  mouth,  who  sat  across  from  him.  But 
these  were  strange  times.  A  man  could  not  be  too  scrupulous. 

"Better  keep  her  on  for  a  month  or  two,  anyhow,"  he  said. 
"They're  up  to  something,  and  I  miss  my  guess  if  it  isn't  di 
rected  against  you." 

"How  about  Herman  Klein?" 


1 68 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Nothing  doing,"  stated  Mr.  Dunbar,  flatly.  "Our  informer 
is  tending  bar  at  Gus's.  Herman  listens  and  drinks  their  beer, 
but  he's  got  the  German  fear  of  authority  in  him.  He's  a  beer 
socialist.  That's  all." 

But  in  that  Mr.  Dunbar  left  out  of  account  the  innate  sav 
agery  that  lurked  under  Herman's  phlegmatic  surface. 

"You  don't  think  it  would  do  if  she  was  moved  to  another 
office?" 

"The  point  is  this."  Dunbar  moved  his  chair  forward.  "The 
time  may  come  when  we  will  need  the  girl  as  an  informer. 
Rudolph  Klein  is  infatuated  with  her.  Now  I  understand  that 
she  has  a  certain  feeling  of — loyalty  to  Mr.  Graham.  In  that 
case" — he  glanced  at  Clayton — "the  welfare  of  the  many, 
Mr.  Spencer,  against  the  few." 

For  a  long  time  after  he  was  gone  Clayton  sat  at  his  desk, 
thinking.  Every  instinct  in  him  revolted  against  the  situation 
thus  forced  on  him.  There  was  something  wrong  with  Dun- 
bar's  reasoning.  Then  it  flashed  on  him  that  Dunbar  probably 
was  right,  and  that  their  points  of  view  were  bitterly  opposed. 
Dunbar  would  have  no  scruples,  because  he  was  not  quite  a 
gentleman.  But  war  was  a  man's  game.  It  was  not  the  time 
for  fine  distinctions,  of  ethics.  And  Dunbar  was  certainly  a 
man. 

If  only  he  could  talk  it  over  with  Natalie!  But  he  knew 
Natalie  too  well  to  expect  any  rational  judgment  from  her. 
She  would  demand  at  once  that  the  girl  should  go.  Yet  he 
needed  a  woman's  mind  on  it.  In  any  question  of  relationship 
between  the  sexes  men  were  creatures  of  impulse,  but  women 
had  plotted  and  planned  through  the  ages.  They  might  lose 
their  standards,  but  never  their  heads.  Not  that  he  put  such 
a  thought  into  words.  He  merely  knew  that  women  were  bet 
ter  at  such  things  than  men. 

That  afternoon,  as  a  result  of  much  uncertainty,  he  took  his 
problem  to  Audrey.  And  Audrey  gave  him  an  answer. 

"You've  got  to  think  of  the  mill,  Clay,"  she  said.  "The  Dun- 
bar  man  is  right.  And  all  you  or  any  other  father  of  a  boy 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 169 

can  do  is  to  pray  in  season,  and  to  trust  to  Graham's  early 
training." 

And  all  the  repressed  bitterness  in  Clayton  Spencer's  heart 
was  in  his  answer.  ,.--- "  \ 

"He  never  had  any  early  training,  Audrey.  Oh,  he  had  cer 
tain  things.  His  manners,  for  instance.  But  other  things — • 
I  ought  not  to  say  that.  It  was  my  fault,  too.  I'm  not  blam 
ing  only  Natalie.  Only  now,  when  it  is  all  we  have  to  count 
on " 

He  was  full  of  remorse  when  he  started  for  home.  He  felt 
guilty  of  every  disloyalty.  And  in  masculine  fashion  he  tried 
to  make  up  to  Natalie  for  the  truth  that  had  been  wrung  from 
him.  He  carried  home  a  great  bunch  of  roses  for  her.  But 
he  carried  home,  too,  a  feeling  of  comfort  and  vague  happiness, 
as  though  the  little  room  behind  him  still  reached  out  and  held 
him  in  its  warm  embrace. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN  the  evening  of  the  thirty-first  of  January  Clayton  and 
Graham  were  waiting  for  Natalie  to  come  down  to  dinner 
when  the  bell  rang,  and  Dunbar  was  announced.  Graham 
welcomed  the  interruption.  He  had  been  vaguely  uneasy  with 
his  father  since  that  day  in  his  office  when  Clayton  had  found 
him  on  Anna  Klein's  desk.  Clayton  had  tried  to  restore  the 
old  friendliness  of  their  relation,  but  the  boy  had  only  half 
heartedly  met  his  advances.  Now  and  then  he  himself  made 
an  overture,  but  it  was  the  almost  timid  advance  of  a  puppy 
that  has  been  beaten.  It  left  Clayton  discouraged  and  alarmed, 
set  him  to  going  back  over  the  past  for  any  severity  on  his  part 
to  justify  it.  Now  and  then  he  wondered  if,  in  Graham's  fre 
quent  closetings  with  Natalie,  she  did  not  covertly  undermine 
his  influence  with  the  boy,  to  increase  her  own. 
;  But  if  she  did,  why?  What  was  going  on  behind  the  im 
passive,  lovely  mask  that  was  her  face  ? 

Dunbar  was  abrupt,  as  usual. 

"I've  brought  you  some  news,  Mr.  Spencer,"  he  said.  He 
looked  oddly  vital  and  alive  in  the  subdued  and  quiet  room. 
"They've  shown  their  hand  at  last.  But  maybe  you've  heard 
it." 

"I've  heard  nothing  new." 

"Then  listen,"  said  Dunbar,  bending  forward  over  a  table, 
much  as  it  was  his  habit  to  bend  over  Clayton's  desk.  "We're 
in  it  at  last.  Or  as  good  as  in  it.  Unrestricted  submarine  war 
fare  !  All  merchant-ships  bound  to  and  from  Allied  ports  to 
be  sunk  without  warning!  We're  to  be  allowed — mark  this, 
it's  funny! — we're  to  be  allowed  to  send  one  ship  a  week  to 
England,  nicely  marked  and  carrying  passengers  only." 

There  was  a  little  pause.    Clayton  drew  a  long  breath. 

170 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 171 

"That  means  war,"  he  said  finally. 

"Hell  turned  over  and  stirred  up  with  a  pitch-fork,  if  we 
have  any  backbone  at  all,"  agreed  Dunbar.  He  turned  to  Gra 
ham.  "You  young  fellows'll  be  crazy  about  this." 

"You  bet  we  will,"  said  Graham. 

Clayton  slipped  an  arm  about  the  boy's  shoulders.  He  could 
not  speak  for  a  moment.  All  at  once  he  saw  what  the  news 
meant.  He  saw  Graham  going  into  the  horror  across  the  sea. 
He  saw  vast  lines  of  marching  men,  boys  like  Graham,  boys 
who  had  frolicked  through  their  careless  days,  whistled  and 
played  and  slept  sound  of  nights,  now  laden  like  pack  animals 
and  carrying  the  implements  of  death  in  their  hands,  going 
forward  to  something  too  terrible  to  contemplate. 

And  a  certain  sure  percentage  of  them  would  never  come 
back. 

His  arm  tightened  about  the  bov.  When  he  withdrew  it 
Graham  straightened. 

"If  it's  war,  it's  my  war,  father." 

And  Clayton  replied,  quietly: 

"It  is  your  war,  old  man." 

Dunbar  turned  his  back  and  inspected  Natalie's  portrait. 
When  he  faced  about  again  Graham  was  lighting  a  cigaret, 
and  Natalie  herself  was  entering  the  room.  In  her  rose-col 
ored  satin  she  looked  exotic,  beautiful,  and  Dunbar  gave  her  a 
fleeting  glance  of  admiration  as  he  bowed.  She  looked  too 
young  to  have  a  boy  going  to  war.  Behind  her  he  suddenly 
saw  other  women,  thousands  of  other  women,  living  luxurious 
lives,  sheltered  and  pampered,  and  suddenly  called  on  to  face 
sacrifice  without  any  training  for  it. 

"Didn't  know  you  were  going  out,"  he  said.  "Sorry.  I'll 
run  along  now." 

"We  are  dining  at  home,"  said  Natalie,  coldly.  She  re 
mained  standing  near  the  door,  as  a  hint  to  the  shabby  gentle 
man  with  the  alert  eyes  who  stood  by  the  table.  But  Dun- 
bar  had  forgotten  her  already. 

"I  came  here  right  away,"  he  explained,  "because  you  may 


172 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

be  having  trouble  now.  In  fact,  I'm  pretty  sure  you  will.  If 
we  declare  war  to-morrow,  as  we  may " 

"War!"  said  Natalie,  and  took  a  step  forward. 

Dunbar  remembered  her. 

"We  will  probably  declare  war  in  a  day  or  two.  The  Ger 
mans " 

But  Natalie  was  looking  at  Clayton  with  a  hostility  in  her 
eyes  she  took  no  trouble  to  conceal. 

"I  hope  you'll  be  happy,  now.  You've  been  talking  war, 
wanting  war — and  now  you've  got  it." 

She  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room.  The  three  men  in 
the  library  below  heard  her  go  up  the  stairs  and  the  slam  of 
her  door  behind  her.  Later  on  she  sent  word  that  she  did  not 
care  for  any  dinner,  and  Clayton  asked  Dunbar  to  remain. 
Practical  questions  as  to  the  mill  were  discussed,  Graham  en 
tering  into  them  with  a  new  interest.  He  was  flushed  and  ex 
cited.  But  Clayton  was  rather  white  and  very  quiet. 

Once  Graham  took  advantage  of  Dunbar's  preoccupation 
with  his  asparagus  to  say: 

"You  don't  object  to  the  aviation  service,  father?" 

"Wherever  you  think  you  can  be  useful." 

After  coffee  Graham  rose. 

"I'll  go  and  speak  to  mother,"  he  said.  And  Clayton  felt 
in  him  a  new  manliness.  It  was  as  though  his  glance  said, 
"She  is  a  woman,  you  know.  War  is  men's  work,  work  for 
you  and  me.  But  it's  hard  on  them." 

Afterward  Clayton  was  to  remember  with  surprise  how 
his  friends  gathered  that  night  at  the  house.  Nolan  came  in 
early,  his  twisted  grin  rather  accentuated,  his  tall  frame  more 
than  usually  stooped.  He  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  library, 
one  hand  in  his  pocket,  a  familiar  attitude  which  made  him 
look  oddly  boyish. 

"Well!"  he  drawled,  without  greeting.  "They've  done  it. 
The  English  have  got  us.  We  hadn't  a  chance.  The  little 
Welshman " 

"Come  in,"  Clayton  said,  "and  talk  like  an  American  and  not 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  173 

an  Irishman.  I  don't  want  to  know  what  you  think  about 
Lloyd  George.  What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  was  thinking,"  Nolan  observed,  advancing,  "of  blowing 
up  Washington.  We'd  have  a  fresh  start,  you  see.  With 
Washington  gone  root  and  branch  we  would  have  some  sort 
of  chance,  a  clear  sweep,  with  the  capital  here  or  in  Boston. 
Or  London." 

Clayton  laughed.  Behind  Nolan's  cynicism  he  felt  a  real 
disturbance.  But  Dunbar  eyed  him  uncertainly.  He  didn't 
know  about  some  of  these  Irish.  They'd  fight  like  hell,  of 
course,  if  only  they'd  forget  England. 

"Don't  worry  about  Washington,"  Clayton  said,  "Let  it 
work  out  its  own  problems.  We  will  have  our  own.  What 
do  you  suppose  men  like  you  and  myself  are  going  to  do  ?  We 
can't  fight." 

Nolan  settled  himself  in  a  long  chair. 

"Why  can't  we  fight?"  he  asked.  "I  heard  something  the 
other  day.  Roosevelt  is  going  to  take  a  division  abroad — older 
men.  I  rather  like  the  idea.  Wherever  he  goes  there'll  be 
fighting.  I'm  no  Rough  Rider,  God  knows.  But  I  haven't 
spent  a  half  hour  every  noon  in  a  gymnasium  for  the  last  ten 
years  for  nothing.  And  I  can  shoot." 

"And  you  are  free,"  Clayton  observed,  quietly. 

Nolan  looked  up. 

"It's  going  to  be  hard  on  the  women,"  he  said.  "You're  all 
right.  They  won't  let  you  go.  You're  too  useful  where  you 
are.  But  of  course  there's  the  boy." 

When  Clayton  made  no  reply  Nolan  glanced  at  him  again. 

"I  suppose  he'll  want  to  go,"  he  suggested. 

Clayton's  face  was  set.  For  more  than  an  hour  now  Gra 
ham  had  been  closeted  with  his  mother,  and  as  the  time  went 
on,  and  no  slam  of  a  door  up-stairs  told  of  his  customary 
method  of  leaving  a  room,  he  had  been  conscious  of  a  growing 
uneasiness.  The  boy  was  soft;  the  fiber  in  him  had  not  been 
hardened  yet,  not  enough  to  be  proof  against  tears.  He  want 
ed  desperately  to  leave  Nolan,  to  go  up  arid  learn  what  argu- 


174  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

ments,  what  coaxing  and  selfish  whimperings  Natalie  was 
using  with  the  boy.  But  he  wanted,  also  desperately,  to  have 
the  boy  fight  his  own  fight  and  win. 

"He  will  want  to  go,  I  think.  Of  course,  his  mother  will 
be  shaken  just  now.  It'll  all  new  to  her.  She  wouldn't  be 
lieve  it  was  coming." 

"He'll  go,"  Nolan  said  reflectively.  "They'll  all  go,  the 
best  of  them  first.  After  all,  we've  been  making  a  lot  of  noise 
about  wanting  to  get  into  the  thing.  Now  we're  in,  and  that's 
the  first  price  we  pay — the  boys." 

A  door  slammed  up-stairs,  and  Clayton  heard  Graham  com 
ing  down.  He  passed  the  library  door,  however,  and  Clayton 
•suddenly  realized  that  he  was  going  out. 

"Graham!"  he  called. 

Graham  stopped,  and  came  back  slowly. 

"Yes,  father,"  he  said,  from  the  doorway. 

"Aren't  you  coming  in  ?" 

"I  thought  I'd  go  out  for  a  bit  of  a  spin,  if  you  don't  mind. 
Evening,  Mr.  Nolan." 

The  boy  was  shaken.  Clayton  knew  it  from  his  tone.  All 
the  fine  vigor  of  the  early  evening  was  gone.  And  an  over 
whelming  rage  filled  him,  against  Natalie,  against  himself, 
even  against  the  boy.  Trouble,  which  should  have  united  his 
house,  had  divided  it.  The  first  threat  of  trouble,  indeed. 

"You  can  go  out  later,"  he  said  rather  sharply.    "We  ought7 
to  talk  things  over,  Graham.    This  is  a  mighty  serious  time." 

"What's  the  use  of  talking  things  over,  father?  We  don't 
know  anything  but  that  we  may  declare  war." 

"That's  enough,  isn't  it?" 

But  he  was  startled  when  he  saw  Graham's  face.  He  was 
very  pale  and  his  eyes  already  looked  furtive.  They  were  ter 
ribly  like  Natalie's  eyes  sometimes.  The  frankness  was  gone 
out  of  them.  He  came  into  the  room,  and  stood  there,  rigid. 

"I  promised  mother  to  get  her  some  sleeping-powders." 

"Sleeping-powders !" 

"She's  nervous." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 175 

"Bad  things,  sleeping-powders,"  said  Nolan.  "Get  her  to 
take  some  setting-up  exercises  by  an  open  window  and  she'll 
sleep  like  a  top." 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  go,  father?" 

Clayton  saw  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  urge  the  boy.  Graham 
wanted  to  avoid  him,  wanted  to  avoid  an  interview.  The  early 
glow  of  the  evening  faded.  Once  again  the  sense  of  having 
lost  his  son  almost  overwhelmed  him. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  stiffly.    And  Graham  went  out. 

However,  he  did  not  leave  the  house.  At  the  door  he  met 
Doctor  Haverford  and  Delight,  and  Clayton  heard  the  clergy 
man's  big  bass  booming  through  the  hall. 

" like  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter !"  he  was  saying.  "And  I 

a  man  of  peace !" 

When  he  came  into  the  library  he  was  still  holding  forth 
with  an  affectation  of  rage. 

"I  ask  you,  Clayton,"  he  said,  "what  refuge  is  there  for  a 
man  of  peace?  My  own  child,  leading  me  out  into  the  night, 
and  inquiring  on  the  way  over  if  I  did  not  feel  that  the  com 
mandment  not  to  kill  was  a  serious  error." 

"Of  course  he's  going,"  she  said.  "He  has  been  making 
the  most  outrageous  excuses,  just  to  hear  mother  and  me  reply 
to  them.  And  all  the  time  nothing  would  hold  him  back/' 

"My  dear,"  said  the  rector  solemnly.  "I  shall  have  to  tell 
you  something.  I  shall  have  to  lay  bare  the  secrets  of  my 
heart.  How  are  you,  Nolan  ?  Delight,  they  will  not  take  me. 
I  have  three  back  teeth  on  a  plate.  I  have  never  told  you  this 
before.  I  did  not  wish  to  ruin  your  belief  that  I  am  perfect. 
But " 

In  the  laugh  that  greeted  this  Graham  returned.  He  was, 
Clayton  saw,  vaguely  puzzled  by  the  rector  and  rather  in 
credulous  as  to  Delight's  attitude. 

"Do  you  really  want  him  to  go?"  he  asked  her. 

"Of  course.  Aren't  you  going?  Isn't  everybody  who  is 
worth  anything  going?  I'd  go  myself  if  I  could.  You  don't 
know  how  lucky  you  are." 


176 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

*•    "But  is  your  Mother  willing?" 

"'Why,  what  sort  of  a  mother  do  you  think  I  have  ?" 
v  Clayton  overheard  that,  and  he  saw  Graham  wince.  His 
own  hands  clenched.  What  a  power  in  the  world  a  brave 
woman  was!  And  what  evil  could  be  wrought  by  a  woman 
without  moral  courage,  a  selfish  woman.  He  brought  himself 
up  short  at  that. 

Others  came  in.  Hutchinson,  from  the  mill.  Terry  Mac 
kenzie,  Rodney  Page,  in  evening  clothes  and  on  his  way  from 
the  opera  to  something  or  other.  In  a  corner  Graham  and 
Delight  talked.  The  rector,  in  a  high  state  of  exaltation,  was 
inclined  to  be  oratorical  and  a  trifle  noisy.  He  dilated  on  the 
vast  army  that  would  rise  overnight,  at  the  call.  He  con 
sidered  the  raising  of  a  company  from  his  own  church,  and 
nominated  Clayton  as  its  captain.  Nolan  grinned  sardonically. 

"Precisely,"  he  said  dryly.  "Clayton,  because  he  looks  like 
a  Greek  god,  is  ideally  fitted  to  lead  a  lot  of  men  who  never 
saw  a  bayonet  outside  of  a  museum.  Against  trained  fighting 
men.  There's  a  difference  you  know,  dominie,  -between  a  clay 
pigeon  and  a  German  with  a  bomb  in  one  hand  and  a  saw- 
toothed  bayonet  in  the  other." 

"We  did  that  in  the  Civil  War." 

uWe  did.    And  it  took  four  years  to  fight  a  six-months  war." 

"We  must  have  an  army.    I  daresay  you'll  grant  that." 

"Well,  you  can  bet  on  one  thing;  we're  not  going  to  have 
every  ward  boss  who  wants  to  make  a  record  raising  a  regi 
ment  out  of  his  henchmen  and  leading  them  to  death." 

"What  would  you  suggest?"  inquired  the  rector,  rather 
crestfallen. 

"I'd  suggest  training  men  as  officers.    And  then — a  draft." 

"Never  come  to  it  in  the  world."  Hutchinson  spoke  up. 
"I've  heard  men  in  the  mill  talking.  They'll  go,  some  of  them, 
but  they  won't  be  driven.  It  would  be  civil  war." 

Clayton  glanced  at  Graham  as  he  replied.  The  boy  was 
leaning  forward,  listening. 

"There's  this  to  be  said  for  the  draft,"  he  said.    "Under  the 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 177 

volunteer  system  the  best  of  our  boys  will  go  first.  That's 
what  happened  in  England.  And  they  were  wiped  out.  It's 
every  man's  war  now.  There  is  no  reason  why  the  few  should 
be  sacrificed  for  the  many." 

"And  there's  this,  too,"  Graham  broke  in.  He  was  flushed 
and  nervous.  "A  fellow  would  have  to  go.  He  wouldn't  be 
having  to  think  whether  his  going  would  hurt  anybody  or 
not.  He  wouldn't  have  to  decide.  He'd — just  go." 

There  was  a  little  hush  in  the  room.    Then  Nolan  spoke. 

"Right-o !"  he  said.  "The  only  trouble  about  it  is  that  it's 
likely  to  leave  out  some  of  us  old  chaps,  who'd  like  to  have  a 
fist  in  it." 

Hutchinson  remained  after  the  others  had  gone.  He 
wanted  to  discuss  the  change  in  status  of  the  plant. 

"We'll  be  taken  over  by  the  government,  probably,"  Clayton 
told  him.  "They  have  all  the  figures,  capacity  and  so  on.  The 
Ordnance  Department  has  that  in  hand." 

Hutchinson  nodded.    He  had  himself  made  the  report. 

"We'll  have  to  look  out  more  than  ever,  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
as  he  rose  to  go.  "The  government  is  guarding  all  bridges 
and  railways  already.  Met  a  lot  of  National  Guard  boys  on 
the  way." 

Graham  left  when  he  did,  offering  to  take  him  to  his  home, 
and  Clayton  sat  for  some  time  alone,  smoking  and  thinking. 
So  the  thing  had  come  at  last.  A  year  from  now,  and  where 
would  they  all  be  ?  The  men  who  had  been  there  to-night,  him 
self,  Graham?  Would  they  all  be  even  living?  Would  Gra 
ham 

He  looked  back  over  the  years.  Graham  a  baby,  splashing 
water  in  his  bath  and  shrieking  aloud  with  joy;  Graham  in  his 
first  little-boy  clothes,  riding  a  velocipede  in  the  park  and 
bringing  in  bruises  of  an  amazing  size  and  blackness ;  Graham 
going  away  to  school,  and  manfully  fixing  his  mind  on  his  first 
long  trousers,  so  he  would  not  cry ;  Graham  at  college,  coming 
in  with  the  winning  crew,  and  stumbling,  half  collapsed,  into 
the  arms  of  a  waiting,  cheering  crowd.  And  the  Graham  who 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 


had  followed  his  mother  up  the  stairs  that  night,  to  come  down 
baffled,  thwarted,  miserable. 

He  rose  and  threw  away  his  cigar.  He  must  have  the  thing 
out  with  Natalie.  The  boy's  soul  was  more  important  than 
his  body.  He  wanted  him  safe.  God,  how  he  wanted  him 
safe  !  But  he  wanted  him  to  be  a  man. 

Natalie's  room  was  dark  when  he  went  in.  He  hesitated. 
Then  he  heard  her  in  bed,  sobbing  quietly.  He  was  angry  at 
himself  for  his  impatience  at  the  sound.  He  stood  beside  the 
bed,  and  forced  a  gentleness  he  did  not  feel. 

"Can  I  get  you  anything?"  he  asked. 

"No,  thank  you."  And  he  moved  toward  the  lamp.  "Don't 
turn  the  light  on.  I  look  dreadful." 

"Shall  I  ring  for  Madeleine?" 

"No.     Graham  is  bringing  me  a  sleeping-powder." 

"If  you  are  not  sleepy,  may  I  talk  to  you  about  some 
things?" 

"I'm  sick,  Clay.    My  head  is  bursting." 

"Sometimes  it  helps  to  talk  out  our  worries  dear."  He  was 
still  determinedly  gentle. 

He  heard  her  turning  her  pillow,  and  settling  herself  more 
comfortably. 

"Not  to  you.  You've  made  up  your  mind  What's  the 
use?" 

"Made  up  my  mind  to  what?" 

"To  sending  Graham  to  be  killed." 

"That's  hardly  worthy  of  you,  Natalie,"  he  said  gravely, 
"He  is  my  son,  too.  I  love  him  at  least  as  much  as  you  do. 
I  don't  think  this  is  really  up  to  us,  anyhow.  It  is  up  to  him. 
If  he  wants  to  go  -  " 

She  sat  up,  suddenly,  her  voice  thin  and  high. 

"How  does  he  know  what  he  wants  ?"  she  demanded.  "He's 
too  young.  He  doesn't  know  what  war  is  ;  you  say  so  your 
self.  You  say  he  is  too  young  to  have  a  position  worth  while 
at  the  plant,  but  of  course  he's  old  enough  to  go  to  war 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 179 

and  have  a  leg  shot  off,  or  to  be  blinded,  or  something."    Her 
voice  broke. 

He  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  felt  around  until  he  found  her 
hand.  But  -she  jerked  it  from  him. 

"You  promised  me  once  to  let  him  make  his  own  decision 
if  the  time  came." 

"When  did  I  promise  that?" 

"In  the  fall,  when  I  came  home  from  England." 

"I  never  made  such  a  promise." 

"Will  you  make  it  now?" 

"No !" 

He  rose,  more  nearly  despairing  than  he  had  ever  been.  He 
could  not  argue  with  a  hysterical  woman.  He  hated  coward 
ice,  but  far  deeper  than  that  was  his  conviction  that  she  had 
already  exacted  some  sort  of  promise.  And  the  boy  was  not 
like  her  in  that  respect.  He  regarded  a  promise  as  almost  in 
the  nature  of  an  oath.  He  himself  had  taught  him  that  in  the 
creed  of  a  gentleman  a  promise  was  a  thing  of  his  honor,  to 
be  kept  at  any  cost. 

"You  are  compelling  me  to  do  a  strange  and  hateful  thing," 
he  said.  "If  you  intend  to  use  your  influence  to  keep  him  out, 
I  shall  have  to  offset  it  by  urging  him  to  go.  That  is  putting 
a  very  terrible  responsibility  on  me." 

He  heard  her  draw  her  breath  sharply. 

"If  you  do  that  I  shall  leave  you,"  she  said,  in  a  frozen  voice. 

Suddenly  he  felt  sorry  for  her.  She  was  so  weak,  so 
childish,  so  cowardly.  And  this  was  the  nearest  they  had 
come  to  a  complete  break. 

"You're  tired  and  nervous,"  he  said.  "We  have  come  a 
long  way  from  what  I  started  out  to  say.  And  a  long  way 
from — the  way  things  used  to  be  between  us.  If  this  thing,  to 
night,  does  not  bring  two  people  together " 

"Together!"  she  cried  shrilly.  "When  have  we  been  to 
gether  ?  Not  in  years.  You  have  been  married  to  your  busi 
ness.  I  am  only  your  housekeeper,  and  Graham's  mother. 


i8o DANGEROUS  DAYS 

And  even  Graham  you  are  trying  to  take  away  from  me.  Oh, 
go  away  and  let  me  alone." 

Down-stairs,  thoughts  that  were  almost  great  had  formu 
lated  themselves  in  his  mind ;  that  to  die  that  others  might  live 
might  be  better  than  to  live  oneself ;  that  he  loved  his  country, 
although  he  had  been  shamefaced  about  it;  that  America  was 
really  the  melting-pot  of  the  world,  and  that,  perhaps,  only  the 
white  flame  of  war  would  fuse  it  into  a  great  nation. 

But  Natalie  made  all  these  thoughts  tawdry.  She  cheapened 
them.  She  found  in  him  nothing  fine;  therefore  there  was 
probably  nothing  fine  in  him.  He  went  away,  to  lie  awake 
most  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

BUT,  with  the  breaking  off  of  diplomatic  relations,  matters 
remained  for  a  time  at  a  standstill.  Natalie  dried  her 
eyes  and  ordered  some  new  clothes,  and  saw  rather  more  of 
Rodney  Page  than  was  good  for  her. 

With  the  beginning  of  February  the  country  house  was  far 
enough  under  way  for  it  to  be  promised  for  June,  and  Nat 
alie,  the  fundamentals  of  its  decoration  arranged  for,  began  to 
haunt  old-furniture  shops,  accompanied  always  by  Rodney. 

"Not  that  your  taste  is  not  right,  Natalie,"  he  explained. 
"It  is  exquisite.  But  these  fellows  are  liars  and  cheats,  some 
of  them.  Besides,  I  like  trailing  along,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Trailing  along  was  a  fairly  accurate  phrase.  There  was 
scarcely  a  day  now  when  Natalie's  shining  car,  with  its  two 
men  in  livery,  did  not  draw  up  before  Rodney's  office  build 
ing,  or  stand,  as  unostentatiously  as  a  fire  engine,  not  too  near 
the  entrance  of  his  club.  Clayton,  going  in,  had  seen  it  there 
once  or  twice,  and  had  smiled  rather  grimly.  He  considered 
its  presence  there  in  questionable  taste,  but  he  felt  no  uneasi 
ness.  Determined  as  he  was  to  give  Natalie  such  happiness 
as  was  still  in  him  to  give,  he  never  mentioned  these  instances. 

But  a  day  came,  early  in  February,  which  was  to  mark  a 
change  in  the  relationship  between  Natalie  and  Rodney. 

It  started  simply  enough.  They  had  lunched  together  at  a 
down-town  hotel,  and  then  went  to  look  at  rugs.  Rodney  had 
found  her  rather  obdurate  as  to  old  rugs.  They  were  still 
arguing  the  matter  in  the  limousine. 

"I  just  don't  like  to  think  of  all  sorts  of  dirty  Turks  and 
Arabs  having  used  them,"  she  protested.  "Slept  on  them, 
walked  on  them,  spilled  things  on  them — ugh !" 

"But  the  colors,  Natalie  dear !  The  old  faded  copper-tones, 

181 


.[82 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

the  dull-blues,  the  dead-rose!  There  is  a  beauty  about  age, 
you  know.  Lovely  as  you  are,  you'll  be  even  lovelier  as  an 
old  woman." 

"I'm  getting  there  rather  rapidly." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  critically.  No  slightest  aid 
that  she  had  given  her  beauty  missed  his  eyes,  the  delicate  ar 
tificial  lights  in  her  hair,  her  eyebrows  drawn  to  a  hair's 
breadth  and  carefully  arched,  the  touch  of  rouge  under  her 
eyes  and  on  the  lobes  of  her  ears.  But  she  was  beautiful,  no 
matter  what  art  had  augmented  her  real  prettiness.  She  was  a 
charming,  finished  product,  from  her  veil  and  hat  to  her  nar 
rowly  shod  feet.  He  liked  finished  things,  well  done.  He 
liked  the  glaze  on  a  porcelain ;  he  liked  the  perfect  lacquering 
on  the  Chinese  screen  he  had  persuaded  Natalie  to  buy;  he  pre 
ferred  wood  carved  into  the  fine  lines  of  Sheraton  to  the  trees 
that  grow  in  the  Park,  for  instance,  through  which  they  were 
driving. 

A  Sheraton  sideboard  was  art.  Even  certain  forms  of 
Colonial  mahogany  were  art,  although  he  was  not  fond  of 
them.  And  Natalie  was — art.  Even  if  she  represented  the 
creative  instincts  of  her  dressmaker  and  her  milliner,  and  not 
her  own — he  did  not  like  a  Louis  XV  sofa  the  less  that  it  had 
not  carved  itself. 

Possibly  Natalie  appealed  then  to  his  collective  instinct,  he 
had  not  analyzed  it.  He  only  knew  that  he  liked  being  with 
her,  and  he  was  not  annoyed,  certainly,  by  the  fact  that  he 
knew  their  constant  proximity  was  arousing  a  certain  amount 
of  comment. 

So: 

"You  are  very  beautiful,"  he  said  with  his  appraising  glance 
full  on  her.  "You  are  quite  the  loveliest  woman  I  know." 

"Still?    With  a  grown  son?" 

"I  am  not  a  boy  myself,  you  know." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

He  hesitated,  then  laughed  a  little. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.     "I  didn't  mean  to  say  that,  ex- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 183 

actly.  Of  course,  that  fact  is  that  I'm  rather  glad  you  are  not 
a  debutante.  You  would  be  giving  me  odds  and  ends  of 
dances  if  you  were,  you  know,  and  shifting  me  as  fast  as  pos 
sible.  As  it  is— 

The  coquetry  which  is  a  shallow  woman's  substitute  for 
passion  stirred  in  her. 

"Well  ?    I'm  awfully  interested." 

He  turned  and  faced  her. 

"I  wonder  if  you  are !" 

"Go  on,  Roddie.    As  it  is ?" 

"As  it  is,"  he  said,  rather  rapidly,  "you  give  me  a  great 
deal  of  happiness.  I  can't  say  all  I  would  like  to,  but  just  be 
ing  with  you — Natalie,  I  wonder  if  you  know  how  much  it 
means  to  me  to  see  you  every  day." 

"I  like  it,  or  I  wouldn't  do  it." 

"But — I  wonder  if  it  means  anything  to  you?" 

Curiously  enough,  with  the  mere  putting  it  into  words,  his 
feeling  for  her  seemed  to  grow.  He  was  even  somewhat  ex 
cited.  He  bent  toward  her,  his  eyes  on  her  face,  and  caught 
one  of  her  gloved  hands.  He  was  no  longer  flirting  with  a 
pretty  woman.  He  was  in  real  earnest.  But  Natalie  was 
still  flirting. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  why  I  like  to  be  with  you?  Be 
cause  of  course  I  do,  or  I  shouldn't  be." 

"Does  a  famishing  man  want  water  ?" 

"Because  you  are  sane  and  sensible.  You  believe,  as  I  do, 
in  going  on  as  normally  as  possible.  All  these  people  who  go 
around  glooming  because  there  is  a  war  across  the  Atlantic! 
They  are  so  tiresome.  Good  heavens,  the  hysterical  attitude 
of  some  women!  And  Clay!" 

He  released  her  hand. 

"So  you  like  me  because  I'm  sensible !    Thanks." 

"That's  a  good  reason,  isn't  it?" 

"Good  God,  Natalie,  I'm  only  sensible  because  I  have  to  be. 
Not  about  the  war.  I'm  not  talking  about  that.  About  you." 

"What  have  I  got  to  do  with  your  being  sensible  and  sane  ?" 


184 DANGEROUS  DAYS       

"Just  think  about  things,  and  you'll  know." 

She  was  greatly  thrilled  and  quite  untouched.  It  was  a 
pleasant  little  game,  and  she  held  all  the  winning  cards.  So 
she  said,  very  softly: 

"We  mustn't  go  on  like  this,  you  know.  We  mustn't  spoil 
things." 

And  by  her  very  "we"  let  him  understand  that  the  plight 
was  not  his  but  theirs.  They  were  to  suffer  on,  she  implied, 
in  a  mutual,  unacknowledged  passion.  He  flushed  deeply. 

But  although  he  was  profoundly  affected,  his  infatuation 
was  as  spurious  as  her  pretense  of  one.  He  was  a  dilettante 
in  love,  as  he  was  in  art.  His  aesthetic  sense,  which  would  have 
died  of  an  honest  passion,  fattened  on  the  very  hopelessness  ot 
his  beginning  an  affair  with  Natalie.  Confronted  just  then 
with  the  privilege  of  marrying  her,  he  would  have  drawn  back 
in  dismay. 

Since  no  such  privilege  was  to  be  his,  however,  he  found  a 
deep  satisfaction  in  considering  himself  hopelessly  in  love  with 
her.  He  was  profoundly  sorry  for  himself.  He  saw  himself 
a  tragic  figure,  hopeless  and  wretched.  He  longed  for  the  un 
attainable;  he  held  up  empty  hands  to  the  stars,  and  by  so 
mimicking  the  gesture  of  youth,  he  regained  youth. 

"You  won't  cut  me  out  of  your  life,  Natalie?"  he  asked 
wistfully. 

And  Natalie,  who  would  not  have  sacrificed  this  new  thrill 
for  anything  real  in  the  world,  replied : 

"It  would  be  better,  wouldn't  it?" 

There  was  real  earnestness  in  his  voice  when  he  spoke.  He 
had  dramatized  himself  by  that  time. 

"Don't  take  away  the  only  thing  that  makes  life  worth  liv 
ing,  dear!" 

Which  Natalie,  after  a  proper  hesitation,  duly  promised  not 
to  do. 

There  were  other  conversations  after  that.  About  mar 
riage,  for  instance,  which  Rodney  broadly  characterized  as  the 
failure  of  the  world;  he  liked  treading  on  dangerous  ground. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 185 

"When  a  man  has  married,  and  had  children,  he  has  ful 
filled  his  duty  to  the  State.  That's  all  marriage  is — duty  to  the 
State.  After  that  he  follows  his  normal  instincts,  of  course." 

"If  you  are  defending  unfaithfulness " 

"Not  at  all.  I  admire  faithfulness.  It's  rare  enough  for 
admiration.  No.  I'm  recognizing  facts.  Don't  you  suppose 
even  dear  old  Clay  likes  a  pretty  woman?  Of  course  he  does. 
It's  a  total  difference  of  view-point,  Natalie.  What  is  an  inci 
dent  to  a  man  is  a  crime  to  a  woman." 

Or: 

"All  this  economic  freedom  of  women  is  going  to  lead  to 
other  freedoms,  you  know." 

"What  freedoms?" 

"The  right  to  live  wherever  they  please.  One  liberty  brings 
another,  you  know.  Women  used  to  marry  for  a  home,  for 
some  one  to  keep  them.  Now  they  needn't,  but — they  have 
to  live  just  the  same." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,  Rodney.    It's  so — cheap." 

It  was  cheap.  It  was  the  old  game  of  talking  around  con 
versational  corners,  of  whispering  behind  mental  doors.  It 
was  insidious,  dangerous,  and  tantalizing.  It  made  between 
them  a  bond  of  lowered  voices,  of  being  on  the  edge  of  things. 
Their  danger  was  as  spurious  as  their  passion,  but  Natalie, 
without  humor  and  without  imagination,  found  the  sense  of 
insecurity  vaguely  attractive. 

Fundamentally  cold,  she  liked  the  idea  of  playing  with  fire. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

WHEN  war  was  not  immediately  declared  the  rector,  who 
on  the  Sunday  following  that  eventful  Saturday  of  the 
President's  speech  to  Congress  had  preached  a  rousing  call 
to  arms,  began  to  feel  a  bit  sheepish  about  it. 

"War  or  no  war,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  Delight,  "it  made 
them  think  for  as  much  as  an  hour.  And  I  can  change  it  some 
what,  and  use  it  again,  if  the  time  really  comes." 

"Second-hand  stuff!"  she  scoffed.  "You  with  your  old 
sermons,  and  Mother  with  my  old  dresses !  But  it  was  a  good 
sermon,"  she  added.  "I  have  hardly  been  civil  to  that  Ger 
man  laundress  since." 

"Good  gracious,  Delight.  Can't  you  remember  that  we 
must  love  our  enemies  ?" 

"Do  you  love  them?  You  know  perfectly  well  that  the 
moment  you  get  on  the  other  side,  if  you  do,  you'll  be  jerking 
the  cross  off  your  collar  and  bullying  some  wretched  soldier 
to  give  you  his  gun." 

He  had  a  guilty  feeling  that  she  was  right. 

It  was  February  then,  and  they  were  sitting  in  the  parish 
house.  Delight  had  been  filling  out  Sunday-school  reports  to 
parents,  an  innovation  she  detested.  For  a  little  while  there 
was  only  the  scratching  of  her  pen  to  be  heard  and  an  oc 
casional  squeal  from  the  church  proper,  where  the  organ  was 
being  repaired.  The  rector  sat  back  in  his  chair,  his  finger 
tips  together,  and  whistled  noiselessly,  a  habit  of  his  when  he 
was  disturbed.  Now  and  then  he  glanced  at  Delight's  bent 
head. 

"My  dear,"  he  commented  finally. 

"Just  a  minute.  That  wretched  little  Simonton  girl  has  been 
absent  three  Sundays  out  of  four.  And  on  the  fourth  one  she 

1 86 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 187 

said  she  had  a  toothache  and  sat  outside  on  the  steps.  Well, 
daddy?" 

"Do  you  see  anything  of  Graham  Spencer  now?" 

"Very  little."  She  looked  at  him  with  frank  eyes.  "He  has 
changed  somehow,  daddy.  When  we  do  meet  he  is  queer.  I 
sometimes  think  he  avoids  me." 

He  fell  back  on  his  noiseless  whistling.  And  Delight,  who 
knew  his  every  mood,  got  up  and  perched  herself  on  the  arm 
of  his  chair. 

"Don't  you  get  to  thinking  things,"  she  said.  And  slipped 
an  arm  around  his  neck. 

"I  did  think,  in  the  winter " 

"I'll  tell  you  about  that,"  she  broke  in,  bravely.  "I  suppose, 
if  he'd  cared  for  me  at  all,  I'd  have  been  crazy  about  him.  It 
isn't  because  he's  good  looking.  I — well,  I  don't  know  why. 
I  just  know,  as  long  as  I  can  remember,  I — however,  that's 
not  important.  He  thinks  I'm  a  nice  little  thing  and  lets  it 
go  at  that.  It's  a  good  bit  worse,  of  course,  than  having 
him  hate  me." 

"Sometimes  I  think  you  are  not  very  happy." 

"I'm  happier  than  I  would  be  trying  to  make  him  fall  in 
love  with  me.  Oh,  you  needn't  be  shocked.  It  can  be  done. 
Lots  of  girls  do  it.  It  isn't  any  moral  sense  that  keeps  me 
from  it,  either.  It's  just  pride." 

"My  dear !" 

"And  there's  another  angle  to  it.  I  wouldn't  marry  a  man 
who  hasn't  got  a  mind  of  his  own.  Even  if  I  had  the  chance, 
which  I  haven't.  That  silly  mother  of  his — she  is  silly,  daddy, 
and  selfish Do  you  know  what  she  is  doing  now?" 

"We  ought  not  to  discuss  her.    She " 

"Fiddlesticks.    You  love  gossip  and  you  know  it." 

Her  tone  was  light,  but  the  rector  felt  thai  arm  around  his 
neck  tighten.  He  surmised  a  depth  of  feeling  that  made  him 
anxious. 

"She  is  trying  to  marry  him  to  Marion  Hayden." 

The  rector  sat  up,  almost  guiltily. 


188 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"But — are  you  sure  she  is  doing  that?" 

"Everybody  says  so.  She  thinks  that  if  he  is  married,  and 
there  is  a  war,  he  won't  want  to  go  if  he  has  a  wife."  She 
was  silent  for  a  moment.  "Marion  will  drive  him  straight  to 
the  devil,  daddy." 

The  rector  reached  up  and  took  her  hand.  She  cared  more 
than  she  would  admit,  he  saw.  She  had  thought  the  thing 
out,  perhaps  in  the  long  night — when  he  slept  placidly. 
Thought  and  suffered,  he  surmised.  And  again  he  remem 
bered  his  worldly  plans  for  her,  and  felt  justly  punished. 

"I  suppose  it  is  hard  for  a  father  to  understand  how  any 
one  can  know  his  little  girl  and  not  love  her.  Or  be  the  better 
for  it." 

She  kissed  him  and  slid  off  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"Don't  you  worry,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "I  had  to  make 
an  ideal  for  myself  about  somebody.  Every  girl  does.  Some 
times  it's  the  plumber.  It  doesn't  really  matter  who  it  is,  so 
you  can  pin  your  dreams  to  him.  The  only  thing  that  hurts 
is  that  Graham  wasn't  worth  while." 

She  went  back  to  her  little  cards,  but  some  ten  minutes 
later  the  rector,  lost  in  thought,  heard  the  scratching  of  her 
pen  cease. 

"Did  you  ever  think,  daddy,"  she  said,  "of  the  influence 
women  have  over  men  ?  Look  at  the  Spencers.  Mrs.  Spencer 
spoiling  Graham,  and  making  her  husband  desperately  un 
happy.  And " 

"Unhappy?    What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"He  looks  unhappy." 

The  rector  was  startled.  He  had  an  instant  vision  of  Clay 
ton  Spencer,  tall,  composed,  handsome,  impeccably  clothed. 
He  saw  him  in  the  setting  that  suited  him  best,  the  quiet  ele 
gance  of  his  home.  Clayton  unhappy!  Nonsense.  But  he 
was  uneasy,  too.  That  very  gravity  which  he  had  noticed 
lately,  that  was  certainly  not  the  gravity  of  an  entirely  happy 
man.  Clayton  had  changed,  somehow.  Was  there  trouble 
there?  And  if  there  were,  why? 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 


The  rector,  who  reduced  most  wretchedness  to  terms  of 
dollars  and  cents,  of  impending  bills  and  small  deprivations, 
found  himself  at  a  loss. 

"I  am  sure  you  are  wrong,"  he  objected,  rather  feebly. 

Delight  eyed  him  with  the  scorn  of  nineteen  for  fifty. 

"I  wonder  what  you  would  do/'  she  observed,  "if  mother 
just  lay  around  all  day,  and  had  her  hair  done,  and  got  new 
clothes,  and  never  thought  a  thought  of  her  own,  and  just 
used  you  as  a  sort  of  walking  bank-account?" 

"My  dear,  I  really  can  not " 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you'd  do,"  she  persisted.  "You'd  fall  in 
love  with  somebody  else,  probably.  Or  else  you'd  just  natu 
rally  dry  up  and  be  made  a  bishop." 

He  was  extremely  shocked  at  that,  and  a  little  hurt.  It  took 
her  some  time  to  establish  cheerful  relations  again,  and  a  very 
humble  apology.  But  her  words  stuck  in  the  rector's  mind. 
He  made  a  note  for  a  sermon,  with  the  text:  "Her  children 
arise  up,  and  call  her  blessed ;  her  husband  also,  and  he  prais- 
eth  her." 

He  went  quietly  into  the  great  stone  building  and  sat  down. 
The  organist  was  practicing  the  Introit  anthem,  and  half  way 
up  the  church  a  woman  was  sitting  quietly. 

The  rector  leaned  back,  and  listened  to  the  music.  He  often 
did  that  when  he  had  a  sermon  in  his  mind.  It  was  peaceful 
and  quiet.  Hard  to  believe,  in  that  peace  of  great  arches  and 
swelling  music,  that  across  the  sea  at  that  moment  men  were 
violating  that  fundamental  law  of  the  church,  "Thou  shalt 
not  kill." 

The  woman  turned  her  head,  and  he  saw  that  it  was 
Audrey  Valentine.  He  watched  her  with  kindly,  speculative 
eyes.  Self-reliant,  frivolous  Audrey,  sitting  alone  in  the 
church  she  had  so  casually  attended — surely  that  was  one  of 
the  gains  of  war.  People  all  came  to  it  ultimately.  They 
held  on  with  both  hands  as  long  as  they  could,  and  then  they 
found  their  grasp  growing  feeble  and  futile,  and  they  turned 
to  the  Great  Strength. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 


The  organist  had  ceased.  Audrey  was  kneeling  now.  The 
rector,  eyes  on  the  gleaming  cross  above  the  altar,  repeated 
softly  : 

"Save  and  deliver  us,  we  humbly  beseech  Thee,  from  the 
hands  of  our  enemies;  that  we,  being  armed  with  Thy  de 
fense,  may  be  preserved  evermore  from  all  perils." 

Audrey  was  coming  down  the  aisle.  She  did  not  see  him. 
She  had,  indeed,  the  fixed  eyes  of  one  who  still  looks  inward. 
She  was  very  pale,  but  there  was  a  new  look  of  strength  in 
her  face,  as  of  one  who  has  won  a  victory. 

"To  glorify  Thee,  who  are  the  only  giver  of  all  victory, 
through  the  merits  of  thy  Son,  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord,"  finished 
the  rector. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ON  the  last  day  of  February  Audrey  came  home  from  her 
shorthand  class  and  stood  wearily  by  the  window,  too 
discouraged  even  to  remove  her  hat.  The  shorthand  was  a 
failure;  the  whole  course  was  a  failure.  She  had  not  the 
instinct  for  plodding,  for  the  meticulous  attention  to  detail 
that  those  absurd,  irrational  lines  and  hooks  and  curves  de 
manded. 

She  could  not  even  spell !  And  an  idiot  of  an  instructor  had 
found  fault  with  the  large  square  hand  she  wrote,  as  being 
uncommercial.  Uncommercial!  Of  course  it  was.  So  was 
she  uncommercial.  She  had  dreamed  a  dream  of  usefulness, 
but  after  all,  why  was  she  doing  it?  We  would  never  fight. 
Here  we  were,  saying  to  Germany  that  we  had  ceased  to  be 
friends  and  letting  it  go  at  that. 

She  might  go  to  England.  They  needed  women  there.  But 
not  untrained  women.  Not,  she  thought  contemptuously, 
women  whose  only  ability  lay  in  playing  bridge,  or  singing 
French  chansons  with  no  particular  voice. 

After  all,  the  only  world  that  was  open  to  her  was  her  old 
world.  It  liked  her.  It  even  understood  her.  It  stretched 
out  a  tolerant,  pleasure-beckoning  hand  to  her. 

"I'm  a  fool,"  she  reflected  bitterly.  "I'm  not  happy,  and 
I'm  not  useful.  I  might  as  well  play.  It's  all  I  can  do." 

But  her  real  hunger  was  for  news  of  Clayton.  Quite  sud 
denly  he  had  stopped  dropping  in  on  his  way  up-town.  He 
had  made  himself  the  most  vital  element  in  her  life,  and  then 
taken  himself  out  of  it.  At  first  she  had  thought  he  might  be 
ill.  It  seemed  too  cruel  otherwise.  But  she  saw  his  name  with 
increasing  frequency  in  the  newspapers.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  every  relief  organization  in  the  country  was  using  his 
name  and  his  services.  So  he  was  not  ill. 

191 


i£2 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

He  had  tired  of  her,  probably.  She  had  nothing  to  give,  had 
no  right  to  give  anything.  And,  of  course,  he  could  not  know 
how  much  he  had  meant  to  her,  of  courage  to  carry  on.  How 
the  memory  of  his  big,  solid,  dependable  figure  had  helped 
her  through  the  bad  hours  when  the  thought  of  Chris's  defec 
tion  had  left  her  crushed  and  abject. 

She  told  herself  that  the  reason  she  wanted  to  see  Natalie 
was  because  she  had  neglected  her  shamefully.  Perhaps  that 
was  what  was  wrong  with  Clay ;  perhaps  he  felt  that,  by  avoid 
ing  Natalie,  she  was  putting  their  friendship  on  a  wrong  basis. 
Actually,  she  had  reached  that  point  all  loving  women  reach, 
when  even  to  hear  a  beloved  name,  coming  out  of  a  long 
silence,  was  both  torture  and  necessity. 

She  took  unusual  pains  with  her  dress  that  afternoon,  and 
it  was  a  very  smart,  slightly  rouged  and  rather  swaggering 
Audrey  who  made  her  first  call  in  weeks  on  Natalie  that  after 
noon. 

Natalie  was  a  little  stiff,  still  slightly  affronted. 

"I  thought  you  must  have  left  town,"  she  said.  "But  you 
look  as  though  you'd  been  having  a  rest  cure." 

"Rouge,"  said  Audrey,  coolly.  "No,  I  haven't  been  entirely 
resting." 

"There  are  all  sorts  of  stories  going  about.  That  you're 
going  into  a  hospital ;  that  you're  learning  to  fly ;  that  you're  in 
the  secret  service " 

"Just  because  I  find  it  stupid  going  about  without  a  man !" 

Natalie  eyed  her  shrewdly,  but  there  was  no  self -conscious 
ness  is  Audrey's  face.  If  the  stories  were  true,  and  there  had 
been  another  woman,  she  was  carrying  it  off  well. 

"At  least  Chris  is  in  France.  I  have  to  go,  when  I  go, 
without  Clay.  And  there  is  no  excuse  whatever." 

"You  mean — he  is  working?" 

"Not  at  night.  He  is  simply  obstinate.  He  says  he  is  tired. 
I  don't  really  mind  any  more.  He  is  so  hatefully  heavy  these 
days." 

"Heavy!    Clay!" 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 193 

"My  dear !"  Natalie  drew  her  chair  closer  and  lowered  her 
voice.  "What  can  one  do  with  a  man  who  simply  lives  war? 
He  spends  hours  over  the  papers.  He's  up  if  the  Allies  make 
a  gain,  and  impossible  if  they  don't.  I  can  tell  by  the  very 
way  he  slams  the  door  of  his  room  when  he  comes  home  what 
the  news  is.  It's  dreadful." 

Audrey  flushed. 

"I  wish  there  were  more  like  him." 

But  Natalie  smiled  tolerantly. 

"You  are  not  married  to  him.  I  suppose  the  war  is  impor 
tant,  but  I  don't  want  it  twenty- four  hours  a  day.  I  want  to 
forget  it  if  I  can.  It's  hideous." 

Audrey's  mouth  twitched.  After  all,  what  was  the  good 
of  talking  to  Natalie.  She  would  only  be  resentful. 

"How  is  the  house  coming  on?"  she  asked. 

She  had  Natalie  on  happy  ground  there.  For  a  half-hour 
she  looked  at  blueprints  and  water-color  sketches,  heard  Rod 
ney's  taste  extolled,  listened  to  plans  for  a  house-party  which 
she  gathered  was,  rather  belatedly,  to  include  her.  And 
through  it  all  she  was  saying  to  herself, 

"This  is  his  wife.  This  is  the  woman  he  loves.  He  has  had 
a  child  by  her.  He  is  building  this  house  for  her.  He  goes 
into  her  room  as  Chris  came  into  mine.  And  she  is  not  good 
enough.  She  is  not  good  enough." 

Now  that  she  had  seen  Natalie,  she  knew  why  she  had  not 
seen  her  before.  She  was  jealous  of  her.  Jealous  and  con 
temptuous.  Suddenly  she  hated  Natalie.  She  hated  her  be 
cause  she  was  Clayton  Spencer's  wife,  with  all  that  that  im 
plied.  She  hated  her  because  she  was  unworthy  of  him.  She 
hated  her  because  she  loved  Clay,  and  hated  her  more  because 
she  loved  herself  more  than  she  loved  him. 

Audrey  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  saw  that  she  had  traveled 
a  long  way  along  a  tragic  road.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
brave  and  reckless  life  she  was  frightened.  She  was  even 
trembling.  She  lighted  a  cigaret  from  the  stand  at  Natalie's 
elbow  to  steady  herself. 


ig4 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Natalie  chattered  on,  and  Audrey  gave  her  the  occasional 
nod  that  was  all  she  needed.  She  thought, 

"Does  he  know  about  her  ?  Is  he  still  fooled  ?  She  is  almost 
beautiful.  Rodney  is  falling  in  love  with  her,  probably.  Does 
he  know  that?  Will  he  care  terribly  if  he  finds  it  out?  She 
looks  cold,  but  one  can't  tell,  and  some  men — has  she  a  drop 
of  honest,  unselfish  passion  in  her?'* 

She  got  up  suddenly. 

"Heavens,  how  late  it  is!"  she  said.    "I  must  run  on." 

"Why  not  stay  on  to  dinner  ?  Graham  is  seldom  home,  and 
we  can  talk,  if  Clay  doesn't." 

The  temptation  to  see  Clay  again  was  strong  in  Audrey. 
But  suddenly  she  knew  that  she  did  not  want  to  see  them  to 
gether,  in  the  intimacy  of  their  home.  She  did  not  want  to  sit 
between  them  at  dinner,  and  then  go  away,  leaving  them  there 
together.  And  something  fundamentally  honest  in  her  told 
her  that  she  had  no  right  to  sit  at  their  table. 

"I'll  come  another  time,  if  you'll  ask  me.  Not  to-day,"  she 
said.  And  left  rather  precipitately.  It  hurt  her,  rather,  to 
have  Natalie,  with  an  impulsive  gesture,  gather  the  flowers  out 
of  a  great  jar  and  insist  on  her  carrying  them  home  with  her. 
It  gave  her  a  miserable  sense  of  playing  unfairly. 

She  walked  home.  The  fresh  air,  after  Natalie's  flower- 
scented,  overheated  room,  made  her  more  rational.  She  knew 
where  she  stood,  anyhow.  She  was  in  love  with  Clayton 
Spencer.  She  had,  she  reflected  cynically,  been  in  love  be 
fore.  A  number  of  tiroes  before.  She  almost  laughed  aloud. 
She  had  called  those  things  love,  those  sickly  romances,  those 
feeble  emotions! 

Then  her  eyes  filled  with  unexpected  tears.  She  had  always 
wanted  some  one  to  make  her  happy.  Now  she  wanted  to 
make  some  one  happy.  She  cared  nothing  for  the  cost.  She 
would  put  herself  out  of  it  altogether.  He  was  not  happy. 
Any  one  could  see  that.  He  had  everything,  but  he  was  not 
happy.  If  he  belonged  to  her,  she  would  live  to  make  him 
happy.  She  would 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 195 

Suddenly  she  remembered  Chris.  Perhaps  she  did  not 
know  how  to  hold  a  man's  love.  She  had  not  held  him.  He 
had  protested  that  she  was  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  loved, 
but  all  the  time  there  had  been  that  other  girl.  How  account 
for  her,  then? 

"He  did  not  think  of  me,"  she  reflected  defiantly,  "I  shall 
not  think  of  him." 

She  was  ashamed  of  that  instantly.  After  all,  Chris  was 
doing  a  man's  part  now.  She  was  no  longer  angry  with  him. 
She  had  written  him  that,  over  and  over,  in  the  long  letters 
she  had  made  a  point  of  sending  him.  Only,  she  did  not  love 
him  any  more.  She  thought  now  that  she  never  had  loved 
him. 

What  about  the  time  when  he  came  back  ?  What  would  she 
do  then  ?  She  shivered. 

But  Chris,  after  all,  was  not  to  come  back.  He  would  never 
come  back  again.  The  cable  was  there  when  she  reached  her 
apartment — a  cold  statement,  irrefutable,  final. 

She  had  put  the  flowers  on  the  table  and  had  raised  her 
hands  to  unpin  her  hat  when  she  saw  it.  She  read  it  with  a 
glance  first,  then  slowly,  painfully,  her  heart  contracted  as  if 
a  hand  had  squeezed  it.  She  stood  very  still,  not  so  much 
stricken  as  horrified,  and  her  first  conscious  thought  was  of 
remorse,  terrible,  gasping  remorse.  All  that  afternoon,  while 
she  had  been  hating  Natalie  and  nursing  her  love  for  Clay, 
Chris  had  been  lying  dead  somewhere. 

Chris  was  dead. 

She  felt  very  tired,  but  not  faint.  It  seemed  dreadful, 
indeed,  that  she  could  be  standing  there,  full  of  life,  while 
Chris  was  dead.  Such  grief  as  she  felt  was  for  him,  not  for 
herself.  He  had  loved  life  so,  even  when  he  cheapened  it. 
He  had  wanted  to  live  and  now  he  was  dead.  She,  who  did 
not  care  greatly  to  live,  lived  on,  and  he  was  gone. 

All  at  once  she  felt  terribly  alone.  She  wanted  some  one 
with  her.  She  wanted  to  talk  it  all  out  to  some  one  who 
understood.  She  wanted  Clay.  She  said  to  herself  that  she 


196 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

did  not  want  him  because  she  loved  him.  All  love  was  dead 
in  her  now.  She  wanted  him  because  he  was  strong  and 
understanding.  She  made  this  very  clear  to  herself,  because 
she  had  a  morbid  fancy  that  Chris  might  be  watching  her. 
There  were  people  who  believed  that  sort  of  thing.  To  her 
excited  fancy  it  seemed  as  though  Chris's  cynical  smile  might 
flash  out  from  any  dusky  corner. 

She  knew  she  was  not  being  quite  rational.  Which  was 
strange,  because  she  felt  so  strong,  and  because  the  voice  with 
which  she  called  Clayton's  number  was  so  steady.  She  knew, 
too,  that  she  was  no  longer  in  love  with  Clay,  because  his 
steady  voice  over  the  telephone  left  her  quite  calm  and  un 
moved. 

"I  want  you  to  come  up,  Clay,"  she  said.  "If  you  can, 
easily." 

"I  can  come  at  once.    Is  anything  wrong?" 

"Chris  has  been  killed,"  she  replied,  and  hung  up  the  re 
ceiver.  Then  she  sat  down  to  wait,  and  to  watch  for  Chris's 
cynical  smile  to  flash  in  some  dusky  corner. 

Clayton  found  her  there,  collapsed  in  her  chair,  a  slim,  gray- 
faced  girl  with  the  rouge  giving  a  grotesque  vitality  to  her 
bloodless  cheeks.  She  got  up  very  calmly  and  gave  him  the 
cablegram.  Then  she  fainted  in  a  crumpled  heap  at  his  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  new  munition  plant  was  nearing  completion.  Situated 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  it  spread  over  a  vast  area  of 
what  had  once  been  waste  land.  Of  the  three  long  buildings, 
two  were  already  in  operation  and  the  third  was  well  under 
way. 

To  Clayton  Spencer  it  was  the  realization  of  a  dream.  He 
never  entered  the  great  high-walled  enclosure  without  a  cer 
tain  surprise  at  the  ease  with  which  it  had  all  been  accom 
plished,  and  a  thrill  of  pride  at  the  achievement.  He  found  the 
work  itself  endlessly  interesting.  The  casts,  made  of  his  own 
steel,  lying  in  huge  rusty  heaps  in  the  yard;  the  little  cars 
which  carried  them  into  the  plant;  the  various  operations  by 
which  the  great  lathes  turned  them  out,  smooth  and  shining, 
only  to  lose  their  polish  when,  heated  again,  they  were  ready 
for  the  ponderous  hammer  to  close  their  gaping  jaws.  The 
delicacy  of  the  work  appealed  to  him,  the  machining  to  a 
thousandth  of  an  inch,  the  fastidious  making  of  the  fuses, 
tiny  things  almost  microscopic,  and  requiring  the  delicate 
touch  of  girls,  most  of  whom  had  been  watchmakers  and 
jewelry-workers. 

And  with  each  carload  of  the  finished  shells  that  left  the 
plant  he  felt  a  fine  glow  of  satisfaction.  The  output  was 
creeping  up.  Soon  they  would  be  making  ten  thousand  shells 
a  day.  And  every  shell  was  one  more  chance  for  victory 
against  the  Hun.  It  became  an  obsession  with  him  to  make 
more,  ever  more. 

As  the  work  advanced,  he  found  an  unexpected  enthusiasm 
in  Graham.  Here  was  something  to  be  done,  a  new  thing.  The 
steel  mill  had  been  long  established.  Its  days  went  on  mo 
notonously.  The  boy  found  it  noisy;  dirty,  without  appeal  to 

197 


198  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

his  imagination.  But  the  shell  plant  was  different.  There 
were  new  problems  to  face,  of  labor,  of  supplies,  of  shipping 
and  output.  ^ 

He  was,  however,  reluctantly  coming  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  break  with  Germany  was  the  final  step  that  the  Government 
intended  to  take.  That  it  would  not  declare  war. 

However,  the  break  had  done  something.  It  had  provided 
him  with  men  from  the  local  National  Guard  to  police  the 
plant,  and  he  found  the  government  taking  a  new  interest, 
an  official  interest,  in  his  safety.  Agents  from  the  Military 
Intelligence  and  the  Department  of  Justice  scanned  his  employ 
ment  lists  and  sent  agents  into  the  plant.  In  the  building  where 
men  and  women  were  hired,  each  applicant  passed  a  desk 
where  they  were  quietly  surveyed  by  two  unobstrusive  gentle 
men  in  indifferent  business  suits  who  eyed  them  carefully. 
Around  the  fuse  department,  where  all  day  girls  and  women 
handled  guncotton  and  high-explosive  powder,  a  special  guard 
was  posted,  day  and  night. 

Early  in  March  Clayton  put  Graham  in  charge  of  the  first 
of  the  long  buildings  to  be  running  full,  and  was  rewarded  by 
a  new  look  in  the  boy's  face.  He  was  almost  startled  at  the 
way  he  took  it. 

"I'll  do  my  very  best,  sir,"  he  said,  rather  huskily.  "If  I 
can't  fight,  I  can  help  put  the  swine  out  of  business,  anyhow." 

He  was  by  that  time  quite  sure  that  Natalie  had  extracted  a 
promise  of  some  sort  from  the  boy.  On  the  rare  occasions 
when  Graham  was  at  home  he  was  quiet  and  suppressed. 

He  was  almost  always  at  Marion  Hayden's  in  the  evenings, 
and  from  things  he  let  fall,  Clayton  gathered  that  the  irrespon 
sible  group  which  centered  about  Marion  was,  in  the  boy's  own 
vernacular,  rather  "shot  to  pieces."  Tommy  Hale  had  gone 
to  England  to  join  the  Royal  Flying  Corps.  One  or  two  of 
them  were  in  Canada,  trying  to  enlist  there,  and  one  evening 
Graham  brought  home  to  dinner  an  inordinately  tall  and  thin 
youngster  in  the  kilts  of  a  Scotch-Canadian  regiment,  with  an 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 199 

astounding  length  of  thin  leg  below  his  skirts,  who  had  been 
one  of  Marion's  most  reckless  satellites. 

"Look  like  a  fool,  I  know,  sir,"  said  the  tall  individual  sheep 
ishly.  "Just  nad  to  get  m  it  somehow.  No  camouflage  about 
these  skirts,  is  there?" 

And  Clayton  had  noticed,  with  a  thrill  of  sympathy,  how 
wistfully  Graham  eyed  the  debonnair  young  Scot  by  adoption, 
and  how  Buckham  had  hovered  over  him,  filling  his  plate  and 
his  glass.  Even  Graham  noticed  Buckham. 

"Old  boy  looks  as  though  he'd  like  to  kiss  you,  Sid,"  he  said. 
"It's  the  petticoats.  Probably  thinks  you're  a  woman." 

"I  look  better  with  my  legs  under  the  table,"  said  the  tall 
boy,  modestly. 

Clayton  was  still  determined  that  Graham  should  fight  the 
thing  out  for  himself.  He  wished,  sometimes,  that  he  knew 
Marion  Hayden's  attitude.  Was  she  like  Natalie?  Would 
she,  if  the  time  came,  use  her  undeniable  influence  for  or 
against?  And  there  again  he  resented  the  influence  of  women 
in  the  boy's  life.  Why  couldn't  he  make  his  own  decisions? 
Why  couldn't  they  let  him  make  his  own  decisions  ? 

He  remembered  his  father,  and  how  his  grandmother,  in 
'61,  had  put  a  Bible  into  one  pocket  and  a  housewife  into 
another,  and  had  sent  him  off  to  war.  Had  the  fiber  of  our 
women  weakened  since  then?  But  he  knew  it  had  not.  All 
day,  in  the  new  plant,  women  were  working  with  high-explo 
sives  quite  calmly.  And  there  were  Audrey  and  the  Haver- 
ford  women,  strong  enough,  in  all  conscience. 

Every  mental  path,  those  days,  somehow  led  eventually  to 
Audrey.  She  was  the  lighted  window  at  the  end  of  the  long 
trail. 

Graham  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  trying  to  work  out  his 
own  salvation.  He  blundered,  as  youth  always  blunders,  and 
after  a  violent  scene  with  Marion  Hayden  he  made  an  attempt 
to  break  off  his  growing  intimacy  with  Anna  Klein — to  find, 
as  many  a  man  had  before  him,  that  the  sheer  brutality  of 
casting  off  a  loving  woman  was  beyond  him. 


200 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

The  scene  with  Marion  came  one  Sunday  in  the  Spencer 
house,  with  Natalie  asleep  up-stairs  after  luncheon,  and  Clay 
ton  walking  off  a  sense  of  irritation  in  the  park.  He  did  not 
like  the  Hayden  girl.  He  could  not  fathom  Natalie's  change 
of  front  with  regard  to  Graham  and  the  girl.  He  had  gone 
out,  leaving  them  together,  and  Marion  had  launched  her  at 
tack  fiercely. 

"Now !"  she  cried. 

"I  couldn't  come  last  night.     That's  all,  Marion." 

"It  is  certainly  not  all.    Why  couldn't  you  come?" 

"I  worked  late." 

"Where?" 

"At  the  plant." 

"That's  a  lie,  Graham.  I  called  the  plant.  I'll  tell  you 
where  you  were.  You  were  out  with  a  girl.  You  v/ere  seen, 
if  you  want  to  know  it." 

"Oh,  if  you  are  going  to  believe  everything  you  hear  about 
me -" 

"Don't  act  like  a  child.    Who  was  the  girl  ?" 

"It  isn't  like  you  to  be  jealous,  Marion.  I  let  you  run 
around  all  the  time  with  other  fellows,  but  the  minute  I  take 
a  girl  out  for  a  little  spin,  you're  jealous." 

"Jealous!"  She  laughed  nastily.  But  she  knew  she  was 
losing  her  temper,  and  brought  herself  up  short.  Let  him 
think  she  was  jealous.  What  really  ailed  her  was  deadly  fear 
lest  her  careful  plan  go  astray.  She  was  terrified.  That  was 
all.  And  she  meant  to  learn  who  the  girl  was. 

"I  know  who  it  was,"  she  hazarded. 

"I  think  you  are  bluffing." 

"It  was  Delight  Haverford." 

"Delight !" 

She  knew  then  that  she  was  wrong,  but  it  was  her  chance 
to  assail  Delight  and  she  took  it. 

"That — child!"  she  continued  contemptuously.  "Don't  you 
suppose  I've  seen  how  she  looks  at  you?  I'm  not  afraid  of 
her.  You  are  too  much  a  man  of  the  world  to  let  her  put 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  201 

anything  over  on  you.  At  least,  I  thought  you  were.  Of 
course,  if  you  like  milk  and  water " 

"It  was  not  Delight,"  he  said  doggedly.  "And  I  don't  think 
we  need  to  bring  her  into  this  at  all.  She's  not  in  love  with 
me.  She  wouldn't  wipe  her  feet  on  me." 

Which  was  unfortunate.    Marion  smiled  slowly. 

"Oh !  But  you  are  good  enough  for  me  to  be  engaged  to ! 
I  wonder!" 

He  went  to  the  window  and  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
out.  Then  he  went  slowly  back  to  her. 

"I'm  not  good  enough  for  you  to  be  engaged  to,  Marion," 
he  said.  "I — don't  you  want  to  call  it  a  day?" 

She  was  really  terrified  then.  She  went  white  and  again, 
miserably,  he  mistook  her  agitation  for  something  deeper. 

"You  want  to  break  the  engagement  ?" 

"Not  if  you  still  want  me.  I  only  mean — I'm  a  pretty  poor 
sort.  You  ought  to  have  the  best,  and  God  help  this  country 
if  I'm  the  best." 

"Graham,  you're  in  some  sort  of  trouble?" 

He  drew  himself  up  in  boyish  bravado.  He  could  not  tell 
her  the  truth.  It  opened  up  too  hideous  a  vista.  Even  his 
consciousness  of  the  fact  that  the  affair  with  Anna  was  still 
innocent  did  not  dull  his  full  knowledge  of  whither  it  was 
trending.  He  was  cold  and  wretched. 

"It's  nothing,"  he  muttered. 

"You  can  tell  me.  You  can  tell  me  anything.  I  know  a 
lot,  you  see.  I'm  no  silly  kitten.  If  you're  in  a  fix,  I'll  help 
you.  I  don't  care  what  it  is,  I'll  help  you.  I — I'm  crazy  about 
you,  Graham." 

Anna's  words,  too ! 

"Look  here,  Marion,"  he  said,  roughly,  "you've  got  to  do  one 
of  two  things.  Either  marry  me  or  let  me  go." 

"Let  you  go !    I  like  that.    If  that  is  how  you  feel " 

"Oh — don't."  He  threw  up  his  arm.  "I  want  you.  You 
know  that.  Marry  me — to-morrow." 

"I  will  not.    Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  come  into  this  fam- 


202 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

ily  and  have  you  cut  off?  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  that 
Clayton  Spencer  hates  the  very  chair  I  sit  on  ?  He'll  come  and 
beg  me  to  marry  you,  some  day.  Until  then " 

"You  won't  do  it  ?" 

"To-morrow?    Certainly  not." 

And  again  he  felt  desperately  his  powerlessness  to  loosen  the 
coils  that  were  closing  round  him,  fetters  forged  of  his  own 
red  blood,  his  own  youth,  the  woman-urge. 

She  was  watching  him  with  her  calculating  glance. 

"You  must  be  in  trouble,"  she  said. 

"If  I  am,  it's  you  and  mother  who  have  driven  me  there." 

He  was  alarmed  then,  and  lapsed  into  dogged  silence.  His 
anxiety  had  forced  into  speech  thoughts  that  had  never  be 
fore  been  articulate.  He  was  astounded  to  hear  himself  utter 
ing  them,  although  with  the  very  speaking  he  realized  now  that 
they  were  true. 

"Sorry,  Marion,"  he  muttered.  "I  didn't  mean  all  that.  I'm 
excited.  That's  all." 

When  he  sat  down  beside  her  again  and  tried  to  take  her 
hand,  she  drew  it  away. 

"You've  been  very  cruel,  Graham,"  she  said.  "I've  been 
selfish.  Every  girl  who  is  terribly  in  love  is  selfish.  I  am 
going  to  give  you  your  ring,  and  leave  you  free  to  do  what 
ever  you  want." 

Her  generosity  overcame  him.  He  was  instantly  ashamed, 
humbled. 

"Don't !"  he  begged.  "Don't  let  me  go.  I'll  just  go  to  the 
dogs.  If  you  really  care " 

"Care !"  she  said  softly.  And  as  he  buried  his  head  in  her 
lap  she  stroked  his  hair  softly.  Her  eyes,  triumphant,  sur 
veyed  the  long  room,  with  its  satin-paneled  walls,  its  French 
furniture,  its  long  narrow  gilt-framed  mirrors  softening  the 
angles  of  the  four  corners. 

Some  day  all  this  would  be  hers.  For  this  she  would  ex 
change  the  untidy  and  imitation  elegance  of  her  present  set 
ting. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 203 

She  stroked  the  boy's  head  absently. 

Graham  made  an  attempt  to  free  himself  the  next  day.  He 
was  about  to  move  his  office  to  the  new  plant,  and  he  made  a 
determination  not  to  take  Anna  with  him. 

He  broke  it  to  her  as  gently  as  he  could. 

"Mr.  Weaver  is  taking  my  place  here,"  he  said,  avoiding  her 
eyes. 

"Yes,  Graham." 

"He'll — there  ought  to  be  some  one  here  who  knowjs  the 
ropes." 

"Do  you  mean  me  ?" 

,  "Well,  you  know  them,  don't  you?"  He  had  tried  to  smile 
at  her. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  to  have  another  secretary 
at  the  plant?" 

"Look  here,  Anna,"  he  said  impulsively.  "You  know  things 
can't  go  on  indefinitely,  the  way  we  are  now.  You  know  it, 
don't  you  ?" 

She  looked  down  and  nodded. 

"Well,  don't  you  think  I'd  better  leave  you  here?" 

She  fumbled  nervously  with  her  wrist-watch. 

"I  won't  stay  here  if  you  go,"  she  said  finally.  "I  hate  Mr. 
Weaver.  I'm  afraid  of  him.  I — oh,  don't  leave  me,  Graham. 
Don't.  I  haven't  anybody  but  you.  I  haven't  any  home — 
not  a  real  home.  You  ought  to  see  him  these  days."  She 
Always  referred  to  her  father  as  "'him."  "He's  dreadful.  I'm 
only  happy  when  I'm  here  with  you." 

He  was  angry,  out  of  sheer  despair. 

i  "I've  told  you,"  he  said.  "Things  can't  go  on  as  they  are. 
You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean.  I'm  older  than  you  are, 
Anna.  God  knows  I  don't  want  any  harm  to  come  to  you 
through  me.  But,  if  we  continue  to  be  together " 

"I'm  not  blaming  you."  She  looked  at  him  honestly.  "I'd 
just  rather  have  you  care  about  me  than  marry  anybody  else." 

He  kissed  her,  with  a  curious  mingling  of  exultation  and 
despair.  He  left  her  there  when  he  went  away  that  after- 


204  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

noon,  a  rather  downcast  young  figure,  piling  vp  records  and 
.card-indexes,  and  following  him  to  the  door  with  worshiping, 
anxious  eyes.  Later  on  in  the  afternoon  Joey,  wandering  in 
from  Clayton's  office  on  one  of  his  self-constituted  observa 
tion  tours,  found  her  crying  softly  while  she  wiped  her  type 
writer,  preparatory  to  covering  it  for  the  night. 

"Somebody  been  treatin'  you  rough?"  he  asked,  more  sym 
pathetic  than  curious. 

'"//hat  are  you  doing  here,  anyhow?"  she  demanded,  angrily. 
"You're  always  hanging  around,  spying  on  me." 

"Somebody's  got  to  keep  an  eye  on  you." 

"'Well,  you  don't." 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  his  young-old  face  twitching  with 
anxiety.  "You  get  out  from  under,  kid.  You  take  my  advice, 
and  get  out  from  under.  Something's  going  to  fall." 

"Just  mind  your  own  business,  and  stop  worrying  about 
me.  That's  all." 

He  turned  and  started  out. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  said  sharply.  "But  you  might  take  a 
word  of  warning,  anyhow.  That  cousin  of  yours  has  got  an 
eye  on  you,  all  right.  And  we  don't  want  any  scandal  about 
the  place." 

"We?    Who  are 'we'?" 

"Me  and  Mr.  Clayton  Spencer,"  said  Joey,  smartly,  and 
went  out,  banging  the  door  cheerfully. 

Anna  climbed  the  hill  that  night  wearily,  but  with  a  sense 
of  relief  that  Rudolph  had  not  been  waiting  for  her  at  the 
yard  gate.  She  was  in  no  mood  to  thrust  and  parry  with  him. 
She  wondered,  rather  dully,  what  mischief  Rudolph  was  up  to. 
He  was  gaining  a  tremendous  ascendency  over  her  father,  she 
knew.  Herman  was  spending  more  and  more  of  his  evenings 
away  from  home,  creaking  up  the  stairs  late  at  night,  shoes  in 
hand,  to  undress  in  the  cold  darkness  across  the  hall. 

"Out  ?"  she  asked  Katie,  sitting  by  the  fire  with  the  evening 
paper.     Conversation  in  the  cottage  was  almost  always  l 
conic. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  205 

"Ate  early,"  Katie  returned.  "Rudolph  was  here,  too.  I'm 
going  to  quit  if  I've  got  to  cook  for  that  sneak  any  longer. 
You'd  think  he  had  a  meal  ticket  here.  Your  supper's  on  the 
stove." 

"I'm  not  hungry."  She  ate  her  supper,  however,  and  un 
dressed  by  the  fire.  Then  she  went  up-stairs  and  sat  by  her 
window  in  the  gathering  night.  She  was  suffering  acutely. 
Graham  was  tired  of  her.  He  wanted  to  get  rid  of  her. 
Probably  he  had  a  girl  somewhere  else,  a  lady.  Her  idea  of 
the  life  of  such  a  girl  had  been  gathered  from  novels. 

"The  sort  that  has  her  breakfast  in  bed,"  she  muttered, 
"and  has  her  clothes  put  on  her  by  somebody.  Her  under 
clothes,  too !" 

The  immodesty  of  the  idea  made  her  face  burn  with  anger. 

Late  that  night  Herman  came  back. 

Herman  had  been  a  difficult  proposition  for  Rudolph  to 
handle.  His  innate  caution,  his  respect  for  law  and,  under  his 
bullying  exterior,  a  certain  physical  cowardice,  made  him  slow 
to  move  in  the  direction  Rudolph  was  urging.  He  was  con 
troversial.  He  liked  to  argue  over  the  beer  and  schnitzel  Ru 
dolph  bought.  And  Rudolph  was  growing  impatient. 

Rudolph  himself  was  all  eagerness  and  zeal.  It  was  his  very 
zeal  that  was  his  danger,  although  it  brought  him  slavish  fol 
lowers.  He  was  contemptuous,  ill-tempered,  and  impatient, 
but,  of  limited  intelligence  himself,  he  understood  for  that 
very  reason  the  mental  processes  of  those  he  would  lead. 
There  was  a  certain  simplicity  even  in  his  cunning.  With 
Herman  he  was  a  ferret  driving  out  of  their  hiding-places 
every  evil  instinct  that  lay  dormant.  Under  his  goading,  Her 
man  was  becoming  savage,  sullen,  and  potentially  violent 

He  was  confused,  too.  Rudolph's  arguments  always  con 
fused  him. 

He  was  confused  that  night,  heavy  with  fatigue  and  with 
Rudolph's  steady  talk  in  his  ear.  He  was  tired  of  pondering 
great  questions,  tired  of  hearing  about  the  Spencers  and  the 
money  they  were  making. 


ao6  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Anna's  clothing  was  scattered  about  the  room,  and  he 
frowned  at  it.  She  spent  too  much  money  on  her  clothes. 
Always  sewing  at  something 

He  stooped  down  to  gather  up  his  shoes,  and  his  ear  thus 
brought  close  to  the  table  was  conscious  in  the  silence  of  a 
faint  rhythmical  sound.  He  stood  up  and  looked  about.  Then 
he  moved  the  newspaper  on  the  table.  Underneath  it,  forgot 
ten  in  her  anxiety  and  trouble,  lay  the  little  gold  watch. 

He  picked  it  up,  still  following  his  train  of  thought.  It 
fitted  into  the  evening's  inflammable  proceedings.  So,  with 
such  trinkets  as  this,  capital  would  silence  the  cry  oi  labor 
for  its  just  share  in  the  products  of  its  skill  and  strength! 
It  would  bribe,  and  cheaply.  Ten  dollars,  perhaps,  that  tick 
ing  insult.  For  ten  dollars 

He  held  it  close  to  his  spectacles.  Ah,  but  it  was  not  so 
cheap.  It  came  from  the  best  shop  in  the  city.  He  weighed 
it  carefully  in  his  hand,  and  in  so  doing  saw  the  monogram. 
A  doubt  crept  into  his  mind,  a  cold  and  chilling  fear.  Since 
when  had  the  Spencer  plant  taken  to  giving  watches  for 
Christmas?  The  hill  girls  who  worked  as  stenographers  in 
the  plant;  they  came  in  often  enough  and  he  did  not  remember 
any  watches,  or  any  mention  of  watches.  His  mind,  working 
slowly,  recalled  that  never  before  had  he  seen  the  watch  near 
at  hand.  And  he  went  into  a  slow  and  painful  calculation. 
Fifty  dollars  at  least  it  had  cost.  A  hundred  stenographers — 
that  would  be  five  thousand  dollars  for  watches. 

Suddenly  he  knew  that  Anna  had  lied  to  him.  One  of  two 
things,  then:  either  she  had  spent  money  for  it,  unknown  to 
him,xor  some  one  had  given  it  to  her.  There  was,  in  his  mind, 
not  rnuch  difference  in  degree  between  the  two  alternatives. 
Both  were  crimes  of  the  first  magnitude. 

He  picked  the  watch  up  between  his  broad  thumb  and  fore 
finger,  and  then,  his  face  a  cold  and  dreadful  mask,  he  mount 
ed  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

CLAYTON  SPENCER  was  facing  with  characteristic 
honesty  a  situation  that  he  felt  was  both  hopeless  and 
shameful. 

He  was  hopelessly  in  love  with  Audrey.  He  knew  now 
that  he  had  known  it  for  a  long  time.  Here  was  no  slender 
sentiment,  no  thin  romance.  With  every  fiber  of  him,  heart 
and  soul  and  body,  he  loved  her  and  wanted  her.  There  was 
no  madness  about  it,  save  the  fact  itself,  which  was  mad 
enough.  It  was  not  the  single  attraction  of  passion,  although 
he  recognized  that  element  as  fundamental  in  it.  It  was  the 
craving  of  a  strong  man  who  had  at  last  found  his  woman. 

He  knew  that,  as  certainly  as  he  knew  anything.  He  did 
not  even  question  that  she  cared  for  him.  It  was  as  though 
they  both  had  passed  through  the  doubting  period  without 
knowing  it,  and  had  arrived  together  at  the  same  point,  the 
crying  need  of  each  other. 

He  rather  thought,  looking  back,  that  Audrey  had  known 
it  sooner  than  he  had.  She  had  certainly  known  the  night  she 
learned  of  Chris's  death.  His  terror  when  she  fainted,  the 
very  way  he  had  put  her  out  of  his  arms  when  she  opened  her 
eyes — those  had  surely  told  her.  Yet,  had  Chris's  cynical 
spirit  been  watching,  there  had  been  nothing,  even  then. 

There  was,  between  them,  nothing  now.  He  had  given  way 
to  the  people  who  flocked  to  her  with  sympathy,  had  called  her 
up  now  and  then,  had  sent  her  a  few  books,  some  flowers.  But 
the  hopelessness  of  the  situation  held  him  away  from  her. 
Once  or  twice,  at  first,  he  had  called  her  on  the  telephone  and 
had  waited,  almost  trembling,  for  her  voice  over  the  wire,  only 
to  ask  her  finally,  in  a  voice  chilled  with  repression,  how  she 
was  feeling,  or  to  offer  a  car  for  her  to  ride  in  the  park.  And 

207 


ao8 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

her  replies  were  equally  perfunctory.  She  was  well.  She 
was  still  studying,  but  it  was  going  badly.  She  was  too  stupid 
to  learn  all  those  pot-hooks. 

Once  she  had  said: 

"Aren't  you  ever  coming  to  see  me,  Clay?" 

Her  voice  had  been  wistful,  and  it  had  been  a  moment  be 
fore  he  had  himself  enough  in  hand  to  reply,  formally: 

"Thank  you.    I  shall,  very  soon." 

But  he  had  not  gone  to  the  little  fiat  again. 

Through  Natalie  he  heard  of  her  now  and  then. 

"I  saw  Audrey  to-day,"  she  said  once.  "She  is  not  wearing 
mourning.  It's  bad  taste,  I  should  say.  When  one  remem 
bers  that  she  really  drove  Chris  to  his  death " 

He  had  interrupted  her,  angrily. 

"That  is  a  cruel  misstatement,  Natalie.  She  did  nothing 
of  the  sort." 

"You  needn't  bite  me,  you  know.  He  went,  and  had  about 
as  much  interest  in  this  war  as — as " 

"As  you  have,"  he  finished.  And  had  gone  out,  leaving 
Natalie  staring  after  him.  '  -*r 

He  was  more  careful  after  that,  but  the  situation  galled 
him.  He  was  no  hypocrite,  but  there  was  no  need  of  wound 
ing  Natalie  unnecessarily.  And  that,  after  all,  was  the  crux 
of  the  whole  situation.  Natalie.  It  was  not  Natalie's  fault 
that  he  had  found  the  woman  of  nis  heart  too  late.  He  had 
no  thought  of  blame  for  her.  In  decency,  there  was  only 
one  thing  to  do.  He  could  not  play  the  lover  to  her,  but 
then  he  had  not  done  that  for  a  very  long  time.  He  could 
see,  however,  that  she  was  not  hurt. 

Perhaps,  in  all  her  futile  life,  Natalie  had,  for  all  her  com 
plaining,  never  been  so  content  in  her  husband  as  in  those 
early  spring  months  when  she  had  completely  lost  him.  He 
made  no  demands  whatever.  In  the  small  attentions,  which  he 
had  never  neglected,  he  was  even  more  assiduous.  He  paid 
her  ever-increasing  bills  without  comment.  He  submitted,  in 
those  tense  days  when  every  day  made  the  national  situation 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  209 

more  precarious,  to  hours  of  discussion  as  to  the  country- 
house,  to  complaints  as  to  his  own  lack  of  social  instinct,  and 
to  that  new  phase  of  her  attitude  toward  Marion  Hayden  that 
left  him  baffled  and  perplexed. 

Then,  on  the  Sunday  when  he  left  Graham  and  Marion  to 
gether  at  the  house,  he  met  Audrey  quite  by  accident  in  the 
park.  He  was  almost  incredulous  at  first.  She  came  like  the 
answer  to  prayer,  a  little  tired  around  the  eyes,  showing 
the  strain  of  the  past  weeks,  but  with  that  same  easy  walk 
and  unconscious  elegance  that  marked  her,  always. 

She  was  not  alone.  There  was  a  tall  blonde  girl  beside 
her,  hideously  dressed,  but  with  a  pleasant,  shallow  face.  Just 
before  they  met  Audrey  stopped  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Then  you'll  let  me  know,  Oare?" 

"Thank  you.    I  will,  indeed,  Mrs.  Valentine." 

With  a  curious  glance  at  Clayton  the  girl  went  on.  Audrey 
smiled  at  him. 

"Please  don't  run!"  she  said.  "There  are  people  looking. 
It  would  be  so  conspicuous." 

^  "Run !"  he  replied.     He  stood  looking  down  at  her,  and 
at  something  in  his  eyes  her  smile  died. 

"It's  too  wonderful,  Clay." 

For  a  moment  he  could  not  speak.  After  all  those  weeks  of 
hunger  for  her  there  was  no  power  in  him  to  dissemble.  He 
felt  a  mad,  boyish  impulse  to  hold  out  his  arms  to  her, 
Malacca  stick,  gloves,  and  all! 

"It's  a  bit  of  luck  I  hadn't  expected,  Audrey,"  he  said, 
at  last,  unsteadily. 

She  turned  about  quite  simply,  and  faced  in  the  direction 
he  was  going. 

"I  shall  walk  with  you,"  she  said,  with  a  flash  of  her  old 
impertinence.  "You  have  not  asked  me  to,  but  I  shall,  any 
how.  Only  don't  call  this  luck.  It  isn't  at  all.  I  walk  here 
every  Sunday,  and  every  Sunday  I  say  to  myself — he  will 
think  he  needs  exercise.  Then  he  will  walk,  and  the  likeliest 
place  for  him  to  go  is  the  park.  Good  reasoning,  isn't  it  ?" 


2io DANGEROUS  DAYS 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  but  his  face  was  set  and  unsmiling. 

"Don't  pay  any  attention  to  me,  Clay.  I'm  a  little  mad, 
probably.  You  see" — she  hesitated — "I  need  my  friends  just 
now.  And  when  the  very  best  of  them  all  hides  away  from 
me " 

"Don't  say  that.    I  stayed  away,  because "  He  hesitated. 

"I'm  almost  through.  Don't  worry!  But  I  was  walking 
along  before  I  met  Clare — I'll  tell  you  about  her  presently — 
and  I  was  saying  to  myself  that  I  thought  God  owed  me 
something.  I  didn't  know  just  what.  Happiness,  maybe.  I've 
been  careless  and  all  that,  but  I've  never  been  wicked.  And 
yet  I  can  look  back,  and  count  the  really  happy  days  of  my 
life  on  five  fingers." 

She  held  out  one  hand. 

"Five  fingers !"  she  repeated,  "and  I  am  twenty-eight.  The 
percentage  is  pretty  low,  you  know." 

"Perhaps  you  and  I  ask  too  much?" 

He  was  conscious  of  her  quick,  searching  glance. 

"Oh !  You  feel  that  way,  too  ?  I  mean — as  I  do,  that  it's 
all  hardly  worth  while?  But  you  seem  to  have  everything, 
Clay." 

"You  have  one  thing  I  lack.    Youth." 

"Youth !    At  twenty-eight !" 

"You  can  still  mold  your  life,  Audrey  dear.  You  have 
had  a  bad  time,  but — with  all  reverence  to  Chris's  memory — 
his  going  out  of  it,  under  the  circumstances,  is  a  grief.  But 
it  doesn't  spell  shipwreck." 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  will  marry  again?"  she  asked,  in  a 
low  tone. 

"Don't  you  think  you  will,  some  time?  Some  nice  young 
chap  who  will  worship  you  all  the  days  of  his  life?  That — * 
well,  that  is  what  I  expect  for  you.  It's  at  least  possible, 
you  know." 

"Is  it  what  you  want  for  me?" 

"Good  God!"  he  burst  out,  his  restraint  suddenly  gone. 
"What  do  you  want  me  to  say  ?  What  can  I  say,  except  that 


DANGEROUS  DAYS arr 

I  want  you  to  be  happy?  Don't  you  think  I've  gone  over  it 
all,  over  and  over  again  ?  I'd  give  my  life  for  the  right  to  tell 
you  the  things  I  think,  but — I  haven't  that  right.  Even  this 
little  time  together  is  wrong,  the  way  things  are.  It  is  all 
wrong." 

"I'm  sorry,  Clay.  I  know.  I  am  just  reckless  to-day.  You 
know  I  am  wreckless.  It's  my  vice.  But  sometimes — we'd 
better  talk  about  the  mill." 

But  he  could  not  talk  about  the  mill  just  then.  They  walked 
along  in  silence,  and  after  a  little  he  felt  her  touch  his  arm. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  just  to  have  it  out  ?"  she  asked,  wist 
fully.  "That  wouldn't  hurt  anybody,  would  it?" 

"I'm  afraid,  Audrey." 

"I'm  not,"  she  said  proudly.  "I  sometimes  think — oh,  I 
think  such  a  lot  these  days — that  if  we  talked  these  things 
over,  I'd  recover  my — friend.  I've  lost  him  now,  you  see. 
And  I'm  so  horribly  lonely,  Clay." 

"Lost  him!" 

"Lost  him,"  she  repeated.  "I've  lost  my  friend,  and  I 
haven't  gained  anything.  It  didn't  hurt  anybody  for  us  to 
meet  now  and  then,  Clay.  You  know  that.  I  wish  you  would 
understand,"  she  added  impatiently.  "I  only  want  to  go  back 
to  things  as  they  were.  I  want  you  to  come  in  now  and  then. 
We  used  to  talk  about  all  sorts  of  things,  and  I  miss  that. 
Plenty  of  people  come,  but  that's  different.  It's  only  your 
occasional  companionship  I  want.  I  don't  want  you  to  come 
and  make  love  to  me." 

"You  say  you  have  missed  the  companionship,"  he  said 
rather  unsteadily.  "I  wonder  if  you  think  I  haven't  ?" 

"I  know  you  have,  my  dear.  And  that  is  why  I  want  you 
to  come.  To  come  without  being  afraid  that  I  expect  or  want 
anything  else.  Surely  we  can  manage  that." 

He  smiled  down  at  her,  rather  wryly,  at  her  straight 
courageous  figure,  her  brave  eyes,  meeting  his  so  directly. 
How  like  her  it  all  was,  the  straightforwardness  of  it,  the 
absence  of  coquetry.  And  once  again  he  knew,  not  only  that 


2T2 DANGEROUS  DAYS • 

he  loved  her  with  all  the  depths  of  him,  of  his  strong  body 
and  his  vigorous  mind,  but  that  she  was  his  woman.  The  one 
woman  in  the  world  for  him.  It  was  as  though  all  his  life 
he  had  been  searching  for  her,  and  he  had  found  her,  and 
it  was  too  late.  She  knew  it,  too.  It  was  in  her  very  eyes. 

"I  have  wanted  to  come,  terribly,"  he  said  finally.  And 
when  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  he  bent  down  and  kissed 
it.  4, 

"Then  that's  settled,"  she  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 
"And  now  I'll  tell  you  about  Clare.  I'm  rather  proud  of 
her." 

"Clare?" 

The  tension  had  been  so  great  that  he  had  forgotten  the 
blonde  girl  entirely. 

"Do  you  remember  the  night  I  got  a  hundred  dollars  from 
you?  And  later  on,  that  I  asked  you  for  work  in  your  mill 
for  the  girl  I  got  it  for?" 

"Do  you  mean?"    He  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"That  was  the  girl.  You  see,  she  rather  holds  onto  me. 
It's  awful  in  a  way,  too.  It  looks  as  though  I  am  posing  as 
magnanimous.  I'm  not,  Clay.  If  I  had  cared  awfully  it 
would  have  been  different.  But  then,  if  I  had  cared  awfully, 
perhaps  it  would  never  have  happened." 

"You  have  nothing  to  blame  yourself  for,  Audrey." 

"Well,  I  do,  rather.  But  that's  not  the  point.  Sometimes 
when  I  am  alone  I  have  wicked  thoughts,  you  know,  Clay. 
I'm  reckless,  and  sometimes  I  think  maybe  there  is  only  one 
life,  and  why  not  get  happiness  out  of  it.  I  realize  that,  but 
for  some  little  kink  in  my  brain,  I  might  be  in  Clare's  posi 
tion.  So  I  don't  turn  her  out.  She's  a  poor,  cheap  thing,  but 
— well,  she  is  fond  of  me.  If  I  had  children — it's  funny,  but 
I  rather  mother  her!  And  she's  straight  now,  straight  as  a 
string!" 

She  was  sensitive  to  his  every  thought,  and  she  knew  by 
the  very  change  in  the  angle  of  his  head  that  he  was  thinking 
that  over  and  not  entirely  approving.  But  he  said  finally: 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 213 

"You're  a  big  woman,  Audrey." 

"But  you  don't  like  it !" 

"I  don't  like  her  troubling  you." 

"Troubling  me!  She  doesn't  borrow  money,  you  know. 
Why,  she  makes  more  money  from  your  plant  than  I  have  to 
live  on !  And  she  brings  me  presents  of  flowers  and  the  most 
awful  embroidery,  that  she  does  herself." 

"You  ought  not  to  know  that  side  of  life." 

She  laughed  a  little  bitterly. 

"Not  know  it !"  she  said.  "I've  had  to  know  it.  I  learned 
it  pretty  well,  too.  And  don't  make  any  mistake,  Clay."  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  her  clear,  understanding  gaze.  "Being 
good,  decent,  with  a  lot  of  people  is  only  the  lack  of  tempta 
tion.  Only,  thank  God,  there  are  some  who  have  the  strength 
to  withstand  it  when  it  comes." 

!  And  he  read  in  her  clear  eyes  her  promise  and  her  under 
standing;  that  they  loved  each  other,  that  it  was  the  one  big 
thing  in  both  their  lives,  but  that  between  them  there  would  be 
only  the  secret  inner  knowledge  of  that  love.  There  would 
be  no  shipwreck.  And  for  what  she  gave,  she  demanded  his 
strength  and  his  promise.  It  was  to  what  he  read  in  her 
face,  not  to  her  words,  that  he  replied : 

"I'll  do  my  very  best,  Audrey  dear." 

He  went  back  to  her  rooms  with  her,  and  she  made  him 
tea,  while  he  built  the  fire  in  the  open  fireplace  and  nursed  it 
tenderly  to  a  healthy  strength.  Overnursed  it,  she  insisted. 
They  were  rather  gay,  indeed,  and  the  danger-point  passed 
by  safely.  There  was  so  much  to  discuss,  she  pretended. 
The  President's  unfortunate  phrase  of  "peace  without  vic 
tory";  the  deportation  of  the  Belgians,  the  recent  leak  in 
Washington  to  certain  stock-brokers,  and  more  and  more  im 
minent,  the  possibility  of  a  state  of  war  being  recognized  by 
t  le  government. 

"If  it  comes,"  she  said,  gayly,  "I  shall  go,  of  course.  I 
shall  go  to  France  and  sing  them  into  battle.  My  shorthand 
looks  like  a  music  score,  as  it  is.  What  will  you  do  ?" 


214 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"I  can't  let  you  outshine  me,"  he  said.  "And  I  don't  want 
to  think  of  your  going  over  there  without  me.  My  dear!  My 
dear!" 

She  ignored  that,  and  gave  him  his  tea,  gravely. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

WHEN  Natalie  roused  from  her  nap  that  Sunday  after 
noon,  it  was  to  find  Marion  gone,  and  Graham  waiting 
for  her  in  her  boudoir.  Through  the  open  door  she  could  see 
him  pacing  back  and  forward  and  something  in  his  face  made 
her  vaguely  uneasy.  She  assumed  the  child-like  smile  which 
so  often  preserved  her  from  the  disagreeable. 

"What  a  sleep  I've  had,"  she  said,  and  yawned  prettily.  "I'll 
have  one  of  your  cigarets,  darling,  and  then  let's  take  a 
walk." 

Graham  knew  Natalie's  idea  of  a  walk,  which  was  three  or 
four  blocks  along  one  of  the  fashionable  avenues,  with  the 
car  within  hailing  distance.  At  the  end  of  the  fourth  block 
she  always  declared  that  her  shoes  pinched,  and  called  the 
machine. 

"You  don't  really  want  to  walk,  mother." 
"Of  course  I  do,  with  you.  Ring  for  Madeleine,  dear." 
She  was  uncomfortable.  Graham  had  been  very  queer 
lately.  He  would  have  long,  quiet  spells,  and  then  break  out 
in  an  uncontrollable  irritation,  generally  at  the  servants.  But 
Graham  did  not  ring  for  Madeleine.  He  lighted  a  cigaret  for 
Natalie,  and  standing  off,  surveyed  her.  She  was  very  pretty. 
She  was  prettier  than  Toots.  That  pale  blue  wrapper,  or 
whatever  it  was,  made  her  rather  exquisite.  And  Natalie, 
curled  up  on  her  pale  rose  chaise  longue,  set  to  work  as  de 
liberately  to  make  a  conquest  of  her  son  as  she  had  ever  done 
to  conquer  Rodney  Page,  or  the  long  list  of  Rodney's  predeces 
sors. 

"You're  growing  very  handsome,  you  know,  boy,"  she  said. 
"Almost  too  handsome.  A  man  doesn't  need  good  looks. 
They're  almost  a  handicap.  Look  at  your  father.'* 


216  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"They  haven't  hurt  him  any,  I  should  say." 

"I  don't  know."  She  reflected,  eyeing  her  cigaret.  "He 
presumes  on  them,  rather.  And  a  good  many  men  never  think 
a  handsome  man  has  any  brains." 

"Well,  he  fools  them  there,  too." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  slightly. 

"Tell  me  about  the  new  plant,  Graham." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it  yet,"  he  said  bluntly.  "And 
you  wouldn't  be  really  interested  if  I  did." 

"That's  rather  disagreeable  of  you." 

"No;  I'm  just  trying  to  talk  straight,  for  once.  We — you 
and  I — we  always  talk  around  things.  I  don't  know  why." 

"You  look  terribly  like  your  father  just  now.  You  are 
quite  savage." 

"That's  exactly  what  I  mean,  mother.  You  don't  say  father 
is  savage.  God  knows  he  isn't  that.  You  just  say  I  act  like 
father,  and  that  I  am  savage." 

Natalie  blew  a  tiny  cloud  of  cigaret  smoke,  and  watched  it 
for  a  moment. 

"You  sound  fearfully  involved.  But  never  mind  about  that. 
I  daresay  I've  done  something;  I  don't  know  what,  but  of 
course  I  am  guilty." 

"Why  did  you  bring  Marion  here  to-day,  mother?" 

"Weil,  if  you  want  to  know  exactly,  I  met  her  coming  out 
of  church,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  we  were  having  rather 
a  nice  luncheon,  and  that  it  would  be  a  pity  not  to  ask  some 
one  to  come  in.  It  was  a  nice  luncheon,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"That's  why  you  asked  her?    For  food?" 

"Brutally  put,  but  correct." 

"You  have  been  asking  her  here  a  lot  lately.  And  yet  the 
last  time  we  discussed  her  you  said  she  was  fast.  That  she 
wanted  to  marry  me  for  my  money.  That  people  would 
laugh  if  I  fell  for  it." 

"I  hardly  used  those  words,  did  I  ?" 

"For  heaven's  sake,  mother,"  he  cried,  exasperated.    "Don't 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  217 

quibble.  Let's  get  down  to  facts.  Does  your  bringing  her 
here  mean  that  you've  changed  your  mind?" 

Natalie  considered.  She  was  afraid  of  too  quick  a  sur 
render  lest  he  grow  suspicious.  She  decided  to  temporize, 
with  the  affectation  of  frankness  that  had  once  deceived 
Clayton,  and  that  still,  she  knew,  affected  Graham. 

'Til  tell  you  exactly,"  she  said,  slowly.  "At  first  I  thought 
it  was  just  an  infatuation.  And — you  really  are  young,  Gra 
ham,  although  you  look  and  act  like  such  a  man.  But  I  feel, 
now  that  time  has  gone  on  and  you  still  care  about  her,  that 
after  all,  your  happiness  is  all  that  matters." 

"Mother!" 

But  she  held  up  her  hand. 

"Remember,  I  am  only  speaking  for  myself.  My  dearest 
wish  is  to  make  you  happy.  You  are  all  I  have.  But  I  cannot 
help  you  very  much.  Your  father  looks  at  those  things  dif 
ferently.  He  doesn't  quite  realize  that  you  are  grown  up, 
and  have  a  right  to  decide  some  things  for  yourself." 

"He  has  moved  me  up,  raised  my  salary." 

"That's  different.  You're  valuable  to  h?^  naturally.  I 
don't  mean  he  doesn't  love  you,"  she  added  hastily,  as  Graham 
wheeled  and  stared  at  her.  "Of  course  he  does,  in  his  own 
way.  It's  not  my  way,  but  then — I'm  only  a  woman  and  a 
mother." 

"You  think  he'll  object?" 

"I  think  he  must  be  handled.  If  you  rush  at  him,  and  de 
mand  the  right  to  live  your  own  life " 

"It  is  my  life." 

"Precisely.     Only  he  may  not  see  it  that  way," 

He  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"Mother,  do  you  really  want  me  to  marry  Marion?" 

"I  think  you  ought  to  be  married." 

"To  Marion?" 

"To  some  >re  you  love." 

"Circles  again,"  he  muttered.  "You've  changed  your  mind, 
for  some  reason.  What  is  it,  mother?" 


218  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

He  had  an  uneasy  thought  that  she  might  have  learned  of 
Anna.  There  was  that  day,  for  instance,  when  his  father  had 
walked  into  the  back  room. 

Natalie  was  following  a  train  of  thought  suggested  by  her 
own  anxiety. 

"You  might  be  married  quietly,"  she  suggested.  "Once  it 
was  done,  I  am  sure  your  father  would  come  around.  You 
are  both  of  age,  you  know." 

He  eyed  her  then  with  open-eyed  amazement. 

"I'm  darned  if  I  understand  you,"  he  burst  out.  And  then, 
in  one  of  his  quick  remorses,  "I'm  sorry,  mother.  I'm  just 
puzzled,  that's  all.  But  that  plan's  no  good,  anyhow.  Marion 
won't  do  it.  She  will  have  to  be  welcome  in  the  family,  or 
she  won't  come." 

"She  ought  to  be  glad  to  come  any  way  she  can,"  Natalie 
said  sharply.  And  found  Graham's  eyes  on  her,  studying  her. 

"You  don't  want  her.  That's  plain.  But  you  do  want  her. 
That's  not  so  plain.  What's  the  answer,  mother?" 

And  Natalie,  with  an  irritable  feeling  that  she  had  bungled 
somehow,  got  -:p  and  flung  away  the  cigaret. 

"I  am  trying  to  give  you  what  you  want,"  she  said  pettishly. 
"That's  clear  enough,  I  should  think." 

"There's  no  other  reason?" 

"What  other  reason  could  there  be?" 

Dressing  to  dine  at  the  Hay  den's  that  night,  Graham  heard 
Clayton  come  in  and  go  into  his  dressing-room.  He  had  an 
impulse  to  go  over,  tie  in  hand  as  he  was,  and  put  the  matter 
squarely  before  his  father.  The  marriage-urge — surely  a 
man  would  understand  that.  Even  Anna,  and  his  predicament 
there.  Anything  was  better  than  this  constant  indirectness  of 
gaining  his  father's  views  through  his  mother. 

Had  he  done  so,  things  would  have  been  different  later. 
But  by  continual  suggestion  a  vision  of  his  father  as  hard, 
detached,  immovable,  had  been  built  up  in  his  mind.    He  got 
as  far  as  the  door,  hesitated,  turned  back. 
-     It  was  Marion  herself  who  solved  the  mystery  of  Natalie's 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 219 

changed  attitude,  when  Graham  told  of  it  that  night.  She  sat 
listening,  her  eyes  slightly  narrowed,  restlessly  turning  her  en 
gagement  ring. 

'Well,  at  least  that's  something,"  she  said,  noncommittally. 
But  in  her  heart  she  knew,  as  one  designing  woman  may  know 
another.  She  knew  that  Natalie  had  made  Graham  promise 
not  to  enlist  at  once,  if  war  was  declared,  and  now  she  knew 
that  she  was  desperately  preparing  to  carry  her  fear  for  Gra 
ham  a  step  further,  even  at  the  cost  of  having  her  in  the 
family. 

She  smiled  wryly.  But  there  was  triumph  in  the  smile,  too. 
She  had  them  now.  The  time  would  come  when  they  would 
crawl  to  her  to  marry  Graham,  to  keep  him  from  going  to 
war.  Then  she  would  make  her  own  terms. 

In  the  meantime  the  thing  was  to  hold  him  by  every  art  she 
knew. 

There  was  another  girl,  somewhere.  She  had  been  more 
frightened  about  that  than  she  cared  to  admit,  even  to  her 
self.  She  must  hold  him  close. 

She  used  every  art  she  knew.  She  deliberately  inflamed 
him.  And  the  vicious  circle  closed  in  about  him,  Natalie  and 
Marion  and  Anna  Klein.  And  to  offset  them,  only  Delight 
Haverford,  at  evening  prayer  in  Saint  Luke's,  and  voicing 
a  tiny  petition  for  him,  that  he  might  walk  straight,  that  he 
might  find  peace,  even  if  that  peace  should  be  war. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

HERMAN  KLEIN,  watch  between  forefinger  and  thumb, 
climbed  heavily  to  Anna's  room.     She  heard  him  pause 
outside  the  door,  and  her  heart  almost  stopped  beating.     She 
had  been  asleep,  and  rousing  at  his  step,  she  had  felt  under 
the  pillow  for  her  watch  to  see  the  time.     It  was  not  there. 

She  remembered  then;  she  had  left  it  below,  on  the  table. 
And  he  was  standing  outside  her  door.  She  heard  him 
scratching  a  match,  striking  it  against  the  panel  of  her  door. 
For  so  long  as  it  would  take  the  match  to  burn  out,  she  heard 
him  there,  breathing  heavily.  Then  the  knob  turned. 

She  leaped  out  of  the  bed  in  a  panic  of  fear.  The  hall, 
like  the  room,  was  dark,  and  she  felt  his  ponderous  body  in 
the  doorway,  rather  than  saw  it. 

"You  will  put  on  something  and  come  down-stairs,"  he  said 
harshly. 

"I  will  not/'  She  tried  to  keep  her  voice  steady.  "Fve  got 
to  work,  if  you  haven't.  I've  got  to  have  my  sleep."  Her 
tone  rose,  hysterically,  "If  you  think  you  can  stay  out  half 
the  night,  and  guzzle  beer,  and  then  come  here  to  get  me  up, 
you  can  think  again." 

"You  are  already  up,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  slowed  and  thick 
ened  by  rage.  "You  will  come  down-stairs." 

He  turned  away  and  descended  the  creaking  stairs  again. 
She  listened  for  the  next  move,  but  he  made  none.  She 
knew  then  that  he  was  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

She  was  half -maddened  with  terror  by  that  time,  and  she 
ran  to  the  window.  But  it  was  high.  Even  if  she  could  have 
dropped  out,  and  before  she  could  put  on  enough  clothing  to 
escape  in,  he  would  be  back  again,  his  rage  the  greater  for  the 
delay.  She  slipped  into  a  kimono,  and  her  knees  giving  way 

220 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 221 

under  her  she  went  down  the  stairs.  Herman  was  waiting. 
He  moved  under  the  lamp,  and  she  saw  that  he  held  the 
watch,  dangling. 

"Now  I"  he  said.    "Where  you  got  this  ?  Tell  me." 

"I've  told  you  how  I  got  it." 

"That  was  a  lie." 

So — Rudolph  had  told  him ! 

"I  like  that!"  she  blustered,  trying  to  gain  time.  "I  guess 
it's  time  they  gave  me  something — I've  worked  hard  enough. 
They  gave  them  to  all  the  girls." 

"That  is  a  lie  also." 

"I  like  that.  Telling  me  I'm  lying.  You  ask  Mr.  Graham 
Spencer.  He'll  tell  you." 

"If  that  is  true,  why  do  you  shake  so  ?" 

"You  scare  me,  father."  She  burst  into  frightened  tears. 
"I  don't  know  what's  got  into  you.  I  do  my  best.  I  give  you 
all  I  make.  I've  kept  this  house  going,  and" —  she  gained  a 
little  courage — "I've  had  darned  little  thanks  for  it." 

"You  think  I  believe  the  mill  gave  five  thousand  dollars 
in  watches  last  Christmas?  To-morrow  I  go,  with  this  to 
Mr.  Clayton  Spencer,  not  to  that  degenerate  son  of  his,  and 
I  ask  him.  Then  I  shall  know." 

He  turned,  as  if  about  to  leave  her,  but  the  alternative  he 
offered,  her  was  too  terrible. 

"Father!"  she  said.  "I'll  tell  you  the  truth.  I  bought  it 
myself." 

"With  what  money?" 

"I  had  a  raise.  I  didn't  tell  you.  I  had  a  raise  of  five  dol 
lars  a  week.  I'm  paying  for  it  myself.  Honest  to  heaven, 
that's  right,  father." 

"So — you  have  had  a  raise,  and  you  have  not  told  me  ?" 

"I  give  all  the  rest  to  you.  What  do  I  get  out  of  all  my 
hard  work?  Just  a  place  to  live.  No  clothes.  No  fun.  No 
anything.  All  the  other  girls  have  a  good  time  now  and  then, 
but  I'm  just  like  a  prisoner.  You  take  all  I  earn,  and  I  get 
—the  devil." 


222 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Her  voice  rose  to  a  terrified  squeal.  Behind  her  she  heard 
the  slovenly  servant  creaking  down  the  stairs.  As  Herman 
moved  toward  her  she  screamed. 

"Katie !"  she  called.    "Quick.    Help!" 

But  Herman  had  caught  her  by  the  shoulder  and  was  drag 
ging  her  toward  a  corner,  where  there  hung  a  leather  strap. 

Katie,  peering  round  the  door  of  the  enclosed  staircase,  saw 
him  raise  the  strap,  and  Anna's  white  face  upraised  piteously. 

"For  God's  sake,  father." 

The  strap  descended.  Even  after  Katie  had  rushed  up  the 
stairs  and  locked  herself  in  the  room,  she  could  hear,  above 
Anna's  cries,  the  thud  of  the  strap,  relentless,  terrible,  lusty 
with  cruelty. 

Herman  went  to  church  the  next  morning.  Lying  in  her 
bed,  too  sore  and  bruised  to  move,  Anna  heard  him  care 
fully  polishing  his  boots  on  the  side  porch,  heard  him  throw 
away  the  water  after  he  had  shaved,  heard  at  last  the  slam 
of  the  gate  as  he  started,  upright  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  for 
church. 

Only  when  he  had  reached  the  end  of  the  street,  and  Katie 
could  see  him  picking  his  way  down  the  blackened  hill,  did 
she  venture  up  with  a  cup  of  coffee.  Anna  had  to  unlock  her 
door  to  admit  her,  to  remove  a  further  barricade  of  chairs* 
When  Katie  saw  her  she  almost  dropped  the  cup. 

"You  poor  little  rat,"  she  said  compassionately.  "Gee !  He 
was  crazy.  I  never  saw  such  a  face.  Gee!" 

Anna  said  nothing.  She  dropped  on  the  side  of  the  bed  and 
took  the  coffee,  drinking  gingerly  through  a  lip  swollen  and 
cut. 

"I'm  going  to  leave,"  Katie  went  on.  "It'll  be  my  time  next. 
If  he  tries  any  tricks  on  me  I'll  have  the  law  on  him.  He's 
a  beast ;  that's  what  he  is." 

"Katie,"  Anna  said,  "if  I  leave  can  you  get  my  clothes  to 
me?  I'll  carry  all  I  can." 

"He'd  take  the  strap  to  me." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 223 

"Well,  if  you're  leaving  anyhow,  you  can  put  some  of  my 
things  in  your  trunk." 

"Good  and  right  you  are  to  get  out,"  Katie  agreed.  "Sure 
I'll  do  it.  Where  do  you  think  you'll  go?" 

"I  thought  last  night  I'd  jump  in  the  river.  I've  changed 
my  mind,  though.  I'll  pay  him  back,  and  not  the  way  he  ex 
pects." 

"Give  it  to  him  good,"  assented  Katie.  "I'd  have  liked  to 
slip  some  of  that  Paris  green  of  his  in  his  coffee  this  morn 
ing.  And  now  he's  off  for  church,  the  old  hypocrite !" 

To  Katie's  curious  inquiries  as  to  the  cause  of  the  beating 
Anna  was  now  too  committal. 

"I  held  out  some  money  on  him,"  was  all  she  said. 

Katie  regarded  her  with  a  mixture  of  awe  and  admira 
tion. 

"You've  got  your  nerve,"  she  said.  "I  wonder  he  didn't  kill 
you.  What's  yours  is  his  and  what's  his  is  his  own !" 

But  Anna  could  not  leave  that  morning.  She  lay  in  her  bed, 
cold  compresses  on  her  swollen  face  and  shoulders,  a  bruised 
and  broken  thing,  planning  hideous  reprisals.  Herman  made 
no  inquiry  for  her.  He  went  stolidly  about  the  day's  work, 
carried  in  firewood  and  coal  from  the  shed,  inspected  the 
garden  with  a  view  to  early  planting,  and  ate  hugely  of  the 
Sunday  mid-day  dinner. 

In  the  afternoon  Rudolph  came. 

"Where's  Anna?"  he  asked  briskly. 

"She  is  in  her  room.    She  is  not  well." 

If  Rudolph  suspected  anything,  it  was  only  that  Anna  was 
sulking.  But  later  on  he  had  reason  to  believe  that  there 
was  trouble.  Out  of  a  clear  sky  Herman  said : 

"She  has  had  a  raise."  Anna  was  "she"  to  him. 

"Since  when?"  Rudolph  asked  with  interest. 

"I  know  nothing.  She  has  not  given  it  to  me.  She  has 
been  buying  herself  a  watch." 

"So!"  Rudolph's  tone  was  wary. 


224 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"She  will  buy  herself  no  more  watches/'  said  Herman,  with 
an  air  of  finality. 

Rudolph  hesitated.  The  organization  wanted  Herman;  he 
had  had  great  influence  with  the  millworkers.  Through  him 
many  things  would  be  possible.  The  Spencers  trusted  him, 
too.  At  any  time  Rudolph  knew  they  would  be  glad  to  rein 
state  him,  and  once  inside  the  plant,  there  was  no  limit  to  the 
mischief  he  could  do.  But  Herman  vvas  too  valuable  to  risk. 
Suppose  he  was  told  now  about  Graham  Spencer  and  Anna, 
and  beat  the  girl  and  was  jailed  for  it?  Besides,  ugly  as 
Rudolph's  suspicions  were,  they  were  as  yet  only  suspicions. 
He  decided  to  wait  until  he  could  bring  Herman  proof  of 
Graham  Spencer's  relations  with  Anna.  When  that  time 
came  he  knew  Herman.  He  would  be  clay  for  the  potter.  He, 
Rudolph,  intended  to  be  the  potter. 

Katie  had  an  afternoon  off  that  Sunday.  When  she  came 
back  that  night,  Herman,  weary  from  the  late  hours  of  Satur 
day,  was  already  snoring  in  his  bed.  Anna  met  Katie  at  her 
door  and  drew  her  in. 

"I've  found  a  nice  room,"  Katie  whispered.  "Here's  the 
address  written  down.  The  street  cars  go  past  it.  Three  dol 
lars  a  week.  Are  you  ready?" 

Anna  was  ready,  even  to  her  hat.  Over  it  she  placed  a 
dark  veil,  for  she  was  badly  disfigured.  Then,  with  Katie 
crying  quietly,  she  left  the  house.  In  the  flare  from  the 
Spencer  furnaces  Katie  watched  until  the  girl  reappeared  on 
the  twisting  street  below  which  still  followed  the  old  path — 
that  path  where  Herman,  years  ago,  had  climbed  through  the 
first  spring  wild  flowers  to  the  cottage  on  the  hill. 

Graham  was  uncomfortable  the  next  morning  on  his  way 
to  the  mill.  Anna's  face  had  haunted  him.  But  out  of  all 
his  confusion  one  thing  stood  out  with  distinctness.  If  he 
was  to  be  allowed  to  marry  Marion,  he  must  have  no  other 
entanglement.  He  would  go  to  her  clean  and  clear. 

So  he  went  to  the  office,  armed  toward  Anna  with  a  hard 
ness  he  was  far  from  feeling. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 225 

"Poor  little  kid!"  he  reflected  on  the  way  down.  "Rotten 
luck,  all  round." 

He  did  not  for  a  moment  believe  that  it  would  be  a  lasting 
grief.  He  knew  that  sort  of  girl,  he  reflected,  out  of  his 
vast  experience  of  twenty-two.  They  were  sentimental,  but 
they  loved  and  forgot  easily.  He  hoped  she  would  forget 
him;  but  even  with  that,  there  was  a  vague  resentment  that 
she  should  do  so. 

"She'll  marry  some  mill-hand,"  he  reflected,  "and  wear 
a  boudoir  cap,  and  have  a  lot  of  children  who  need  their  noses 
wiped." 

But  he  was  uncomfortable. 

Anna  was  not  in  her  office.  Her  coat  and  hat  were  not 
there.  He  was  surprised,  somewhat  relieved.  It  was  out  of 
his  hands,  then ;  she  had  gone  somewhere  else  to  work.  Well, 
she  was  a  good  stenographer.  Somebody  was  having  a  piece 
of  luck. 

Clayton,  finding  him  short-handed,  sent  Joey  over  to  help 
him  pack  up  his  office  belongings,  the  fittings  of  his  desk,  his 
personal  papers,  the  Japanese  prints  and  rugs  Natalie  had  sent 
after  her  single  visit  to  the  boy's  new  working  quarters.  And, 
when  Graham  came  back  from  luncheon,  Joey  had  a  message 
for  him. 

"Telephone  call  for  you,  Mr.  Spencer." 

"What  was  it?" 

"Lady  called  up,  from  a  pay  'phone.  She  left  her  number 
and  said  she'd  wait."  Joey  lowered  his  voice  confidentially. 
"Sounded  like  Miss  Klein,"  he  volunteered. 

He  was  extremely  resentful  when  Graham  sent  him  away 
on  an  errand.  And  Graham  himself  frowned  as  he  called 
the  number  on  the  pad.  It  was  like  a  girl,  this  breaking  off 
clean  and  then  telephoning,  instead  of  letting  the  thing  go, 
once  and  for  all.  But  his  face  changed  as  he  heard  Anna's 
brief  story  over  the  wire. 

"Of  course  I'll  come,"  he  said.     "I'm  pretty  busy,  but  I 


226 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

can  steal  a  half-hour.  Don't  you  worry.  We'll  fix  it  up  some 
way." 

He  was  more  concerned  than  deeply  anxious  when  he  rang 
off.  It  was  unfortunate,  that  was  all.  And  the  father  was  a 
German  swine,  and  ought  to  be  beaten  himself.  To  think  that 
his  Christmas  gift  had  brought  her  to  such  a  pass !  A  leather 
strap !  God ! 

He  was  vaguely  uneasy,  however.  He  had  a  sense  of  a  situ 
ation  being  forced  on  him.  He  knew,  too,  that  Clayton  was 
waiting  for  him  at  the  new  plant.  But  Anna's  trouble,  absurd 
as  its  cause  seemed  to  him,  was  his  responsibility. 

It  ceased  to  be  absurd,  however,  when  he  saw  her  discol 
ored  features.  It  would  be  some  time  before  she  could  even 
look  for  another  situation.  Her  face  was  a  swollen  mask,  and 
since  such  attraction  as  she  had  had  for  him  had  been  due 
to  a  sort  of  evanescent  prettiness  of  youth,  he  felt  a  repul 
sion  that  he  tried  his  best  to  conceal. 

"You  poor  little  thing!"  he  said.  "He's  a  brute.  I'd  like 

"  He  clenched  his  fists.  "Well,  I  got  you  into  it.  I'm 

certainly  going  to  see  you  through." 

She  had  lowered  her  veil  quickly,  and  he  felt  easier.  The 
telephone  booth  was  in  the  corner  of  a  quiet  hotel,  and  they 
were  alone.  He  patted  her  shoulder. 

"I'll  see  you  through,"  he  repeated.  "Don't  you  worry- 
about  anything.  Just  lie  low." 

"See  me  through?    How?" 

"I  can  give  you  money ;  that's  the  least  I  can  do.  Until  you 
are  able  to  work  again."  And  as  she  drew  away,  "We'll 
call  it  a  loan,  if  that  makes  you  feel  better.  You  haven't 
anything,  have  you  ?" 

"He  has  everything  I've  earned.  I've  never  had  a  penny 
except  carfare." 

"Poor  little  girl !"  he  said  again. 

She  was  still  weak,  he  saw,  and  he  led  her  into  the  deserted 
cafe.  He  took  a  highball  himself,  not  because  he  wanted  it, 
but  because  she  refused  to  drink,  at  first.  He  had  never  be- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 227 

fore  had  a  drink  in  the  morning,  and  he  felt  a  warm  and 
reckless  glow  to  his  very  finger-tips.  Bending  toward  her, 
while  the  waiter's  back  was  turned,  he  kissed  her  marred  and 
swollen  cheek. 

"To  think  I  have  brought  you  all  this  trouble !" 

"You  mustn't  blame  yourself." 

"I  do.  But  I'll  make  it  up  to  you,  Anna.  Yon  don't  hate 
me  for  it,  do  you?" 

"Hate  you !    You  know  better  than  that." 

"I'll  come  round  to  take  you  out  now  and  then,  in  the 
evenings.  I  don't  want  you  to  sit  alone  in  that  forsaken 
boarding-house  and  mope."  He  drew  out  a  bill-fold,  and 
extracted  some  notes.  "Don't  be  silly,"  he  protested,  as  she 
drew  back.  "It's  the  only  way  I  can  get  back  my  self-respect. 
You  owe  it  to  me  to  let  me  do  it." 

She  was  not  hard  to  persuade.  Anything  was  better  than 
going  back  to  the  cottage  on  the  hill,  and  to  that  heavy  brood 
ing  figure,  and  the  strap  on  the  wall.  But  the  taking  of  the 
money  marked  a  new  epoch  in  the  girl's  infatuation.  It 
bought  her.  She  did  not  know  it,  nor  did  he.  But  hitherto 
she  had  been  her  own,  earning  her  own  livelihood.  What 
she  gave  of  love,  of  small  caresses  and  intimacies,  had  been 
free  gifts. 

From  that  time  she  was  his  creature.  In  her  creed,  which 
was  the  creed  of  the  girls  on  the  hill,  one  did  not  receive 
without  giving.  She  would  pay  him  back,  but  all  that  she 
had  to  give  was  herself. 

"You'll  come  to  see  me,  too.    Won't  you  ?" 

The  tingling  was  very  noticeable  now.  He  felt  warm,  and 
young,  and  very,  very  strong. 

"Of  course  I'll  come  to  see  you,"  he  said,  recklessly.  "You 
take  a  little  time  off — you've  worked  hard — and  we'll  play 
round  together." 

She  bent  down,  unexpectedly,  and  put  her  bruised  cheek 
against  his  hand,  as  it  lay  on  the  table. 

"I  love  you  dreadfully,"  she  whispered. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

FEBRUARY  and  March  were  peaceful  months,  on  the  sur 
face.  Washington  was  taking  stock  quietly  of  national 
resources  and  watching  for  Germany's  next  move.  The  win 
ter  impasse  in  Europe  gave  way  to  the  first  fighting  of  spring, 
raids  and  sorties  mostly,  since  the  ground  was  still  too  heavy 
for  the  advancement  of  artillery.  On  the  high  seas  the  reign 
of  terror  was  in  full  swing,  and  little  tragic  echoes  of  the 
world  drama  began  again  to  come  by  cable  across  the  At 
lantic.  Some  of  Graham's  friends,  like  poor  Chris,  found  the 
end  of  the  path  of  glory.  The  tall  young  Canadian  High 
lander  died  before  Peronne  in  March.  Denis  Nolan's  nephew 
was  killed  in  the  Irish  Fusileers. 

One  day  Clayton  came  home  to  find  a  white-faced  Buckham 
taking  his  overcoat  in  the  hall,  and  to  learn  that  he  had  lost 
a  young  brother. 

Clayton  was  uncomfortable  at  dinner  that  night.  He  won 
dered  what  Buckham  thought  of  them,  sitting  there  around 
the  opulent  table,  in  that  luxurious  room.  Did  he  resent  it? 
After  dinner  he  asked  him  if  he  cared  to  take  a  few  days 
off,  but  the  old  butler  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  glad  to  have  my  work  to  keep  me  busy,  sir,"  he  said. 
"And  anyhow,  in  England,  it's  considered  best  to  go  on,  quite 
as  though  nothing  had  happened.  It's  better  for  the  troops, 
sir." 

There  was  a  new  softness  and  tolerance  in  Clayton  that 
early  spring.  He  had  mellowed,  somehow,  a  mellowing  that 
had  nothing  to  do  with  his  new  prosperity.  In  past  times  he 
had  wondered  how  he  would  stand  financial  success  if  it  ever 
came.  He  had  felt  fairly  sure  he  could  stand  the  other  thing. 
But  success?  Now  he  found  that  it  only  increased  his  sense 

228 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 229 

of  responsibility.  He  was,  outside  of  the  war  situation,  as 
nearly  happy  as  he  had  been  in  years.  Natalie's  petulant 
moods,  when  they  came,  no  longer  annoyed  him.  He  was 
supported,  had  he  only  known  it,  by  the  strong  inner  life  he 
was  living,  a  life  that  centered  about  his  weekly  meetings 
with  Audrey. 

Audrey  gave  him  courage  to  go  on.  He  left  their  com 
radely  hours  together  better  and  stronger.  All  the  week  cen 
tered  about  that  one  hour,  out  of  seven  days,  when  he  stood 
on  her  hearth-rug,  or  lay  back  in  a  deep  chair,  listening  or 
talking — such  talk  as  Natalie  might  have  heard  without  re 
sentment. 

Some  times  he  felt  that  that  one  hour  was  all  he  wanted ;  it 
carried  so  far,  helped  so  greatly.  He  was  so  boyishly  content 
in  it.  And  then  she  would  make  a  gesture,  or  there  would 
be,  for  a  second,  a  deeper  note  in  her  voice,  and  the  mad  in 
stinct  to  catch  her  to  him  was  almost  overwhelming. 

Some  times  he  wondered  if  she  were  not  very  lonely,  not 
knowing  that  she,  too,  lived  for  days  on  that  one  hour.  She 
was  not  going  out,  because  of  Chris's  death,  and  he  knew 
there  were  long  hours  when  she  sat  alone,  struggling  deter 
minedly  with  the  socks  she  was  knitting. 

Only  once  did  they  tread  on  dangerous  ground,  and  that 
was  on  her  birthday.  He  stopped  in  a  jeweler's  on  his  way 
up-town  and  brought  her  a  black  pearl  on  a  thin  almost  in 
visible  chain,  only  to  have  her  refuse  to  take  it. 

"I  can't,  Clay!" 

"Why  not?" 

"It's  too  valuable.  I  can't  take  valuable  presents  from 
men." 

"It's  value  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  it." 

"I'm  not  wearing  jewelry,  anyhow." 

"Audrey,"  he  said  gravely,  "it  isn't  the  pearl.  It  isn't  its 
value.  That's  absurd.  Don't  you  understand  that  I  would  like 
to  think  that  you  have  something  I  have  given  you  ?" 

When  she  sat  still,  thinking  over  what  he  had  said,  he 


230  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

slipped  the  chain  around  her  neck  and  clasped  it.  Then  he 
stooped  down,  very  gravely,  and  kissed  her. 

"For  my  silent  partner !"  he  said. 

In  all  those  weeks,  that  was  the  only  time  he  had  kissed 
her.  He  knew  quite  well  the  edge  of  the  gulf  they  stood 
on,  and  he  was  determined  not  to  put  the  burden  of  denial  on 
her.  He  felt  a  real  contempt  for  men  who  left  the  strength  of 
refusal  to  a  woman,  who  pleaded,  knowing  that  the  woman's 
strength  would  save  them  from  themselves,  and  that  if  she 
weakened,  the  responsibility  was  hers. 

So  he  fed  on  the  husks  of  love,  and  was,  if  not  happy, 
happier. 

Graham,  too,  was  getting  on  better.  For  one  thing,  Anna 
Klein  had  been  ill.  She  lay  in  her  boarding-house,  frightened 
at  every  step  on  the  stairs,  and  slowly  recovered  from  a  low 
fever.  Graham  had  not  seen  her,  but  he  sent  her  money  for 
a  doctor,  for  medicines,  for  her  room  rent,  enclosed  in  brief 
letters,  purely  friendly  and  interested.  But  she  kept  them 
under  her  pillow  and  devoured  them  with  feverish  eyes. 

But  something  had  gone  out  of  life  for  Graham.  Not 
Anna.  Natalie,  watching  him  closely,  wondered  what  it  was. 
He  had  been  strange  and  distant  with  her  ever  since  that  tall 
boy  in  kilts  had  been  there.  He  was  studiously  polite  and 
attentive  to  her,  rose  when  she  entered  a  room  and  remained 
standing  until  she  was  seated,  brought  her  the  book  she  had 
forgotten,  lighted  her  occasional  cigaret,  kissed  her  morning 
and  evening.  But  he  no  longer  came  into  her  dressing-room 
for  that  hour  before  dinner  when  Natalie,  in  dressing-gown 
and  slippers,  had  closed  the  door  to  Clayton's  room  and  had 
kept  him  for  herself. 

She  was  jealous  of  Clayton  those  days.  Some  times  she 
found  the  boy's  eyes  fixed  on  his  father,  with  admiration  and 
something  more.  She  was  jealous  of  the  things  they  had  in 
common,  of  the  days  at  the  mill,  of  the  bits  of  discussion  after 
dinner,  when  Clayton  sat  back  with  his  cigar,  and  Graham 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 231 

voiced,  as  new  discoveries,  things  about  the  work  that  Clayton 
had  realized  for  years. 

He  always  listened  gravely,  with  no  hint  of  patronage.  But 
Natalie  would  break  in  now  and  then,  impatient  of  a  conversa 
tion  that  excluded  her. 

"Your  father  knows  all  these  things,  Graham,"  she  said 
once.  "You  talk  as  though  you'd  just  discovered  the  mill, 
like  Columbus  discovering  America." 

"Not  at  all,"  Clayton  said,  hastily.  "He  has  a  new  view 
point.  I  am  greatly  interested.  Go  on,  Graham." 

But  the  boy's  enthusiasm  had  died.  He  grew  self-conscious, 
apologetic.  And  Clayton  felt  a  resentment  that  was  close  to 
despair. 

The  second  of  April  fell  on  a  Saturday.  Congress,  having 
ended  the  session  the  fourth  of  March,  had  been  hastily  re 
convened,  and  on  the  evening  of  that  day,  Saturday,  at  half 
past  eight,  the  President  went  before  the  two  Houses  in  joint 
session. 

Much  to  Clayton's  disgust,  he  found  on  returning  home  that 
they  were  dining  out. 

"Only  at  the  Mackenzies.  It's  not  a  party,"  Natalie  said. 
As  usual,  she  was  before  the  dressing-table,  and  she  spoke  to 
his  reflection  in  the  mirror.  "I  should  think  you  could  do  that, 
without  looking  like  a  thunder-cloud.  Goodness  knows  we've 
been  quiet  enough  this  Lent." 

"You  know  Congress  has  been  re-convened?" 

"I  don't  know  why  that  should  interfere." 

"It's  rather  a  serious  time."  He  tried  very  hard  to  speak 
pleasantly.  Her  engrossment  in  her  own  reflection  irritated 
him,  so  he  did  not  look  at  her.  "But  of  course  I'll  go." 

"Every  time  is  a  serious  time  with  you  lately,"  she  flung 
after  him.  Her  tone  was  not  disagreeable.  She  was  merely 
restating  an  old  grievance.  A  few  moments  later  he  heard 
her  calling  through  the  open  door. 

'I  got  some  wonderful  old  rugs  to-day,  Clay." 

"Yes?" 


232 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"You'll  scream  when  you  pay  for  them." 

"I've  lost  my  voice  screaming,  my  dear." 

"You'll  love  these.  They  have  the  softest  colors,  dead 
rose,  and  faded  blue,  and  old  copper  tones." 

"I'm  very  glad  you're  pleased." 

She  was  in  high  good  humor  when  they  started.  Clayton, 
trying  to  meet  her  conversational  demands,  found  himself 
wondering  if  the  significance  of  what  was  to  happen  in  Wash 
ington  that  night  had  struck  home  to  her.  If  it  had,  and  she 
could  still  be  cheerful,  then  it  was  because  she  had  forced  a 
promise  from  Graham. 

He  made  his  decision  then ;  to  force  her  to  release  the  boy 
from  any  promise;  to  allow  him  his  own  choice.  But  he  felt 
with  increasing  anxiety  that  some  of  Natalie's  weakness  of 
character  had  descended  to  Graham,  that  in  him,  as  in  Natalie, 
perhaps  obstinacy  was  what  he  hoped  was  strength.  He 
wondered,  listening  to  her,  what  it  would  be  to  have  beside 
him  that  night  some  strong  and  quiet  woman,  to  whom  he 
could  carry  his  problems,  his  perplexities.  Some  one  to  sit, 
hand  in  his,  and  set  him  right  as  such  a  woman  could,  on 
many  things. 

And  for  a  moment,  he  pictured  Audrey.  Audrey,  his  wife, 
driving  with  him  in  their  car,  to  whatever  the  evening  might 
hold.  And  after  it  was  all  over,  going  back  with  her,  away 
from  all  the  chatter  that  meant  so  little,  to  the  home  that  shut 
them  in  together. 

He  was  very  gentle  to  Natalie  that  night. 

Natalie  had  been  right.  It  was  a  small  and  informal  group, 
gathered  together  hastily  to  discuss  the  emergency ;  only  Denis 
Nolan,  the  Mackenzies,  Clayton  and  Natalie,  and  Audrey. 

"We  brought  her  out  of  her  shell,"  said  Terry,  genially, 
"because  the  country  is  going  to  make  history  to-night.  The 
sort  of  history  Audrey  has  been  shouting  for  for  months." 

The  little  party  was  very  grave.  Yet,  of  them  all,  only  the 
Spencers  would  be  directly  affected.  The  Mackenzies  had  no 
children. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  233 

"Button,  my  secretary,"  Terry  announced,  "is  in  Washing 
ton.  He  is  to  call  me  here  when  the  message  is  finished." 

"Isn't  it  possible,"  said  Natalie,  recalling  a  headline  from 
the  evening  paper,  "that  the  House  may  cause  an  indefinite 
delay?" 

And,  as  usual,  Clayton  wondered  at  the  adroitness  with 
which,  in  the  talk  that  followed,  she  escaped  detection. 

They  sat  long  at  the  table,  rather  as  though  they  clung  to 
gether.  And  Nolan  insisted  on  figuring  the  cost  of  war  in 
money. 

"Queer  thing,"  he  said.  "In  ancient  times  the  cost  of  war 
fell  almost  entirely  on  the  poor.  But  it's  the  rich  who  will 
pay  for  this  war.  All  taxation  is  directed  primarily  against 
the  rich." 

"The  poor  pay  in  blood,"  said  Audrey,  rather  sharply. 
"They  give  their  lives,  and  that  is  all  they  have." 

"Rich  and  poor  are  going  to  do  that,  now,"  old  Terry  broke 
in.  "Fight  against  it  all  you  like,  you  members  of  the  privi 
leged  class,  the  draft  is  coming.  This  is  every  man's  war." 

But  Clayton  Spencer  was  watching  Natalie.  She  had  paled 
and  was  fingering  her  liqueur-glass  absently.  Behind  her  low 
ered  eyelids  he  surmised  that  again  she  was  planning.  But 
what  ?  Then  it  came  to  him,  like  a  flash.  Old  Terry  had  said 
the  draft  would  exempt  married  men.  She  meant  to  marry 
Graham  to  a  girl  she  detested,  to  save  him  from  danger. 

Through  it  all,  however,  and  in  spite  of  his  anger  and  ap 
prehension,  he  was  sorry  for  her.  Sorry  for  her  craven  spirit. 
Sorry  even  with  an  understanding  that  came  from  his  own 
fears.  Sorry  for  her,  that  she  had  remained  an  essential  child 
in  a  time  that  would  tax  the  utmost  maturity.  She  was  a 
child.  Even  her  selfishness  was  the  selfishness  of  a  spoiled 
child.  She  craved  things,  and  the  spirit,  the  essence  of  life, 
escaped  her. 

And  beside  him  was  Audrey,  valiant-eyed,  courageous,  hon 
est.  Natalie  and  Audrey !  Some  time  during  the  evening  his 


234 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

thoughts  took  this  form:  that  there  were  two  sorts  of  people 
in  the  world:  those  who  seized  their  own  happiness,  at  any 
cost;  and  those  who  saw  the  promised  land  from  a  far  hill, 
and  having  seen  it,  turned  back. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

GRAHAM  was  waiting  in  Clayton's  dressing-room  when  he 
went  up-stairs.  Through  the  closed  door  they  could  hear 
Natalie's  sleepy  and  rather  fretful  orders  to  her  maid.    Gra 
ham  rose  when  he  entered,  and  threw  away  his  cigaret. 

"I  guess  it  has  come,  father."  i 

"It  looks  like  it." 

A  great  wave  of  tenderness  for  the  boy  flooded  over  him. 
That  tall,  straight  body,  cast  in  his  own  mold,  but  young,  only 
ready  to  live,  that  was  to  be  cast  into  the  crucible  of  war,  to 
come  out — God  alone  knew  how.  And  not  his  boy  only,  but 
millions  of  other  boys.  Yet — better  to  break  the  body  than 
ruin  the  soul. 

"How  is  mother  taking  it?" 

Natalie's  voice  came  through  the  door.  She  was  insisting 
that  the  house  be  kept  quiet  the  next  morning.  She  wanted 
to  sleep  late.  Clayton  caught  the  boy's  eyes  on  him,  and  a 
half  smile  on  his  face. 

"Does  she  know?" 

"Yes." 

"She  isn't  taking  it  very  hard,  is  she?"  Then  his  voice 
changed.  "I  wish  you'd  talk  to  her,  father.  She's — well, 
she's  got  me !  You  see,  I  promised  her  not  to  go  in  without 
her  consent." 

"When  did  you  do  that?" 

"The  night  we  broke  with  Germany,  in  February.  I  was 
a  fool,  but  she  was  crying,  and  I  didn't  know  what  else  to  do. 
And" — there  was  a  ring  of  desperation  in  his  voice — "she's 
holding  me  to  it.  I've  been  to  her  over  and  over  again." 

"And  you  want  to  go  ?" 

"Want  to  go !    I've  got  to  go." 

235 


236 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

He  broke  out  then  into  a  wild  appeal.  He  wanted  to  get 
away.  He  was  making  a  mess  of  all  sorts  of  things.  He 
v/asn't  any  good.  He  would  try  to  make  good  in  the  army. 
Maybe  it  was  only  the  adventure  he  wanted — he  didn't  know. 
He  hadn't  gone  into  that.  He  hated  the  Germans.  He  wanted 
one  chance  at  them,  anyhow.  They  were  beasts. 

Clayton,  listening,  was  amazed  at  the  depth  of  feeling  and 
anger  in  his  voice. 

"I'll  talk  to  your  mother,"  he  agreed,  when  the  boy's  passion 
had  spent  itself.  "I  think  she  will  release  you."  But  he  was 
less  certain  than  he  pretended  to  be.  He  remembered  Natalie's 
drooping  eyelids  that  night  at  dinner.  She  might  absolve  him 
from  the  promise,  but  there  were  other  ways  of  holding  him 
back  than  promises. 

"Perhaps  we  would  better  go  into  the  situation  thoroughly." 
he  suggested.  "I  have  rather  understood,  lately,  that  you — 
what  about  Marion  Hayden,  Graham?" 

"I'm  engaged  to  her." 

There  was  rather  a  long  pause.  Clayton's  face  was  expres 
sionless. 

"Since  when?" 

"Last  fall,  sir." 

"Does  your  mother  know  ?" 

"I  told  her,  yes."  He  looked  up  quickly.  "I  didn't  tell  you. 

I  knew  you  disliked  her,  and  mother  said "  He  checked 

himself.  "Marion  wanted  to  wait.  She  wanted  to  be  welcome 
when  she  came  into  the  family." 

"I  don't  so  much  lislike  her  as  I — disapprove  of  her." 

"That's  rather  worse,  isn't  it  ?" 

Clayton  was  tired.  His  very  spirit  was  tired.  He  sat  down 
in  his  big  chair  by  the  fire. 

"She  is  older  than  you  are,  you  know." 

"I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it,  father." 

In  Clayton's  defense  was  his  own  situation.  He  did  not 
want  the  boy  to  repeat  his  mistakes,  to  marry  the  wrong 
woman,  and  then  find,  too  late,  the  right  one.  During  the 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 237 

impassioned  appeal  that  followed  he  was  doggedly  determined 
to  prevent  that.  Perhaps  he  lost  the  urgency  in  the  boy's 
voice.  Perhaps  in  his  new  conviction  that  the  passions  of  the 
forties  were  the  only  real  ones,  he  took  too  little  count  of  the 
urge  of  youth. 

He  roused  himself. 

"You  think  you  are  really  in  love  with  her?" 

"I  want  her.    I  know  that." 

"That's  different.  That's — you  are  too  young  to  know  what 
you  want." 

"I  ought  to  be  married.  It  would  settle  me.  I'm  sick  of 
batting  round." 

"You  want  to  marry  before  you  enter  the  army?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  think  for  a  moment  that  your  wife  will  be  willing 
to  let  you  go  ?" 

Graham  straightened  himself. 

"She  would  have  to  let  me  go." 

And  in  sheer  despair,  Clayton  played  his  last  card.  Played 
it,  and  regretted  it  bitterly  a  moment  later. 

"We  must  get  this  straight,  Graham.  It's  not  a  question  of 
your  entering  the  army  or  not  doing  it.  It's  a  question  of 
your  happiness.  Marriage  is  a  matter  of  a  life-time.  It's  got 
to  be  based  on  something  more  than — "  he  hesitated.  "And 
your  mother " 

"Please  go  on." 

"You  have  just  said  that  your  mother  does  not  want  you 
to  go  into  the  army.  Has  it  occurred  to  you  she  would  even 
see  you  married  to  a  girl  she  detests,  to  keep  you  at  home  ?" 

Graham's  face  hardened. 

"So,"  he  said,  heavily,  "Marion  wants  me  for  the  money 
she  thinks  I'm  going  to  have,  and  mother  wants  me  to  marry 
to  keep  me  safe!  By  God,  it's  a  dirty  world,  isn't  it?" 

Suddenly  he  was 'gone,  and  Clayton,  following  uneasily  to 
the  doorway,  heard  a  slam  below.  When,  some  hours  later, 
Graham  had  not  come  back,  he  fell  into  the  heavy  sleep  that 


238 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

follows  anxiety  and  brings  no  rest.  In  the  morning  he  found 
that  Graham  had  gone  back  to  the  garage  and  taken  his  car, 
and  that  he  had  not  returned. 

Afterward  Clayton  was  to  look  back  and  to  remember  with 
surprise  how  completely  the  war  crisis  had  found  him  ab 
sorbed  in  his  own  small  group.  But  perhaps  in  the  back  of 
every  man's  mind  war  was  always,  first  of  all,  a  thing  of  his 
own  human  contacts.  It  was  only  when  those  were  cleared 
up  that  he  saw  the  bigger  problem.  The  smaller  questions 
loomed  so  close  as  to  obscure  the  larger  vision. 

He  went  out  into  the  country  the  next  day,  a  cold  Sunday, 
going  afoot,  his  head  down  against  the  wind,  and  walked  for 
miles.  He  looked  haggard  and  tired  when  he  came  back,  but 
his  quiet  face  held  a  new  resolve.  War  had  come  at  last.  He 
would  put  behind  him  the  selfish  craving  for  happiness,  for 
get  himself.  He  would  not  make  money  out  of  the  nation's 
necessity.  He  would  put  Audrey  out  of  his  mind,  if  not  out 
of  his  heart.  He  would  try  to  rebuild  his  house  of  life  along 
new  and  better  lines.  Perhaps  he  could  bring  Natalie  to  see 
things  as  he  saw  them,  as  they  were,  not  as  she  wanted  them 
to  be. 

Some  times  it  took  great  crises  to  bring  out  women.  Child- 
bearing  did  it,  often.  Urgent  need  did  it,  too.  But  after  all 
the  real  test  was  war.  The  big  woman  met  it  squarely,  took 
her  part  of  the  burden;  the  small  woman  weakened,  went 
down  under  it,  found  it  a  grievance  rather  than  a  grief. 

He  did  not  notice  Graham's  car  when  it  passed  him,  out 
side  the  city  limits,  or  see  Anna  Klein's  startled  eyes  as  it 
flashed  by. 

Graham  did  not  come  in  until  evening.  At  ten  o'clock 
Clayton  found  the  second  man  carrying  up-stairs  a  tray  con 
taining  whisky  and  soda,  and  before  he  slept  he  heard  a  tap 
at  Graham's  door  across  the  hall,  and  surmised  that  he  had 
rung  for  another.  Later  still  he  heard  Natalie  cross  the  hall, 
and  rather  loud  and  angry  voices.  He  considered,  ironically, 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  '239 

that  a  day  which  had  found  a  part  of  the  nation  on  its  knees 
found  in  his  own  house  only  dissension  and  bitterness. 

In  the  morning,  at  the  office,  Joey  announced  a  soldier  to 
see  him,  and  added,  with  his  customary  nonchalance: 

"We'll  be  having  a  lot  of  them  around  now,  I  expect." 

Clayton,  glancing  up  from  the  visitor's  slip  in  his  hand, 
surprised  something  wistful  in  the  boy's  eyes. 

"Want  to  go,  do  you?" 

"Give  my  neck  to  go — sir."  He  always  added  the  "sir," 
when  he  remembered  it,  .with  the  air  of  throwing  a  sop  to  a 
convention  he  despised. 

"You  may  yet,  you  know.  This  thing  is  going  to  last  a 
while.  Send  him  in,  Joey." 

He  had  grown  attached  to  this  lad  of  the  streets.  He  found 
in  his  loyalty  a  thing  he  could  not  buy. 

Jackson  was  his  caller.  Clayton,  who  had  been  rather  more 
familiar  with  his  back  in  its  gray  livery  than  with  any  other 
aspect  of  him,  found  him  strange  and  impressive  in  khaki. 

"I'm  sorry  I  couldn't  get  here  sooner,  Mr.  Spencer,"  he 
explained.  "I've  been  down  on  the  border.  Yuma.  I  just 
got  a  short  leave,  and  came  back  to  see  my  family." 
j  He  stood  very  erect,  a  bronzed  and  military  figure.  Sud 
denly  it  seemed  strange  to  Clayton  Spencer  that  this  man 
before  him  had  only  a  few  months  before  opened  his  auto 
mobile  door  for  him,  and  stood  waiting  with  a  rug  to  spread 
over  his  knees.  He  got  up  and  shook  hands. 

"You  look  like  a  different  man,  Jackson." 
>     "Well,  at  least  I  feel  like  a  man." 

"Sit  down,"  he  said.  And  again  it  occurred  to  him  that 
never  before  had  he  asked  Jackson  to  sit  down  in  his  pres 
ence.  It  was  wrong,  somehow.  The  whole  class  system  was 
absurd.  Maybe  war  would  change  that,  too.  It  was  dsing 
many  queer  things,  already. 

He  had  sent  for  Jackson,  but  he  did  not  at  once  approacH 
the  reason.  He  sat  back,  while  Jackson  talked  of  the  border 
and  Joey  slipped  in  and  pretended  to  sharpen  lead  pencils. 


240 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Clayton's  eyes  wandered  to  the  window.  Outside  in  the  yard 
were  other  men,  now  employees  of  his,  who  would  soon  be  in 
khaki.  Out  of  eveiy  group  there  in  a  short  time  some  would 
be  gone,  and  of  those  who  would  go  a  certain  number  would 
never  come  back.  That  was  what  war  was ;  one  day  a  group 
of  men,  laboring  with  their  hands  or  their  brains,  that  some 
little  home  might  live;  that  they  might  go  back  at  evening  to 
that  home,  and  there  rest  for  the  next  day's  toil.  And  the 
next,  gone.  Every  man  out  there  in  the  yard  was  loved  by 
some  one.  To  a  certain  number  of  them  this  day  meant  death, 
or  wounding.  It  meant  separation,  and  suffering,  and  strug 
gle. 

And  all  over  the  country  there  were  such  groups. 

The  roar  of  the  plant  came  in  through  the  open  window.  A 
freight  car  was  being  loaded  with  finished  shells.  As  fast  as 
it  was  filled,  another  car  was  shunted  along  the  spur  to  take 
its  place.  Over  in  Germany,  in  hundreds  of  similar  plants, 
similar  shells  were  being  hurried  to  the  battle  line,  to  be 
hurled  against  the  new  army  that  was  soon  to  cross  the  seas. 

All  those  men,  and  back  of  every  man,  a  woman. 

Jackson  had  stopped.  Joey  was  regarding  him  with  stealthy 
admiration,  and  holding  his  breast  bone  very  high.  Already  in 
his  mind  Joey  was  a  soldier. 

"You  did  not  say  in  your  note  why  you  wanted  to  see  me, 
Mr.  Spencer." 

He  roused  himself  with  a  visible  effort. 

"I  sent  for  you,  yes,"  he  said.  "I  sent — I'll  tell  you  why  I 
sent  for  you,  Jackson.  I've  been  meaning  to  do  it  for  several 
weeks.  Now  that  this  has  come  I'm  more  than  glad  I  did  so. 
You  can't  keep  your  family  on  what  you  are  getting.  That's 
certain." 

"My  wife  is  going  to  help  me,  sir.  The  boy  will  soon  be 
weaned.  Then  she  intends  to  get  a  position.  She  was  a  mil 
liner  when  we  were  married." 

"But — Great  Scott !  She  ought  not  to  leave  a  child  as  young 
as  that." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 241 

Jackson  smiled. 

"She's  going  to  fix  that,  all  right.  She  wants  to  do  it.  And 
we're  all  right  so  far.  I  had  saved  a  little." 

Then  there  were  women  like  that !  Women  who  would  not 
only  let  their  men  go  to  war,  but  who  would  leave  their  homes 
and  enter  the  struggle  for  bread,  to  help  them  do  it. 

"She  says  it's  the  right  thing,"  volunteered  Jackson,  proudly. 

Women  who  felt  that  a  man  going  into  the  service  was  a 
right  thing.  Women  who  saw  war  as  a  duty  to  be  done,  not  a 
wild  adventure  for  the  adventurous. 

"You  ought  to  be  very  proud  of  her,"  he  said  slowly. 
"There  are  not  many  like  that." 

"Well,"  Jackson  said,  apologetically,  "they'll  come  round, 
sir.  Some  of  them  kind  of  hate  the  idea,  just  at  first.  But  I 
look  to  see  a  good  many  doing  what  my  wife's  doing." 

Clayton  wondered  grimly  what  Jackson  would  think  if  he 
knew  that  at  that  moment  he  was  passionately  envious  of  him, 
of  his  uniform,  of  the  youth  that  permitted  him  to  wear  that 
uniform,  of  his  bronzed  skin,  of  his  wife,  of  his  pride  in  that 
wife. 

"You're  a  lucky  chap,  Jackson,"  he  said.  "I  sent  for  you 
because  I  wanted  to  say  that,  as  long  as  you  are  in  the  national 
service,  I  shall  feel  that  you  are  on  a  vacation" — he  smiled  at 
the  word — "on  pay.  Under  those  circumstances,  I  owe  you 
quite  a  little  money." 

Jackson  was  too  overwhelmed  to  reply  at  once. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  Clayton  went  on,  "it's  a  national 
move,  in  a  way.  You  don't  owe  any  gratitude.  We  need  our 
babies,  you  see.  More  than  we  do  hats !  If  this  war  goes  on, 
we  shall  need  a  good  many  boy  babies." 

And  his  own  words  suddenly  crystallized  the  terror  that  was 
in  him.  It  was  th.  boys  who  would  go ;  boys  who  whistled  in 
the  morning;  boyh  who  dreamed  in  the  spring,  long  dreams 
of  romance  and  of  love. 

Boys.  Not  men  like  himself,  with  their  hopes  and  dreams 
behind  them.  Not  men  who  had  lived  enough  to  know  that 


242 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

only  their  early  dreams  were  real.  Not  men,  who,  having 
lived,  knew  the  vast  disillusion  of  living  and  were  ready  to  die. 

It  was  only  after  Jackson  had  gone  that  he  saw  the  fallacy 
of  his  own  reasoning.  If  to  live  were  disappointment,  then 
to  die,  still  dreaming  the  great  dream,  was  not  wholly  evil. 
He  found  himself  saying, 

"To  earn  some  honorable  advancement  for  one's  soul." 

Deep  down  in  him,  overlaid  with  years  of  worldliness,  there 
was  a  belief  in  a  life  after  death.  He  looked  out  the  window 
at  the  little,  changing  group.  In  each  man  out  there  there  was 
something  that  would  live  on,  after  he  had  shed  that  sweating, 
often  dirty,  always  weary,  sometimes  malformed  shell  that  was 
the  body.  And  then  the  thing  that  would  count  would  be  not 
how  he  had  lived  but  what  he  had  done. 

This  war  was  a  big  thing.  It  was  the  biggest  thing  in  all 
the  history  of  the  world.  There  might  be,  perhaps,  some 
special  heaven  for  those  who  had  given  themselves  to  it,  some 
particular  honorable  advancement  for  their  souls.  Already 
he  saw  Jackson  as  one  apart,  a  man  dedicated. 

Then  he  knew  that  all  his  thinking  was  really  centered 
about  his  boy.  He  wanted  Graham  to  go.  But  in  giving  him 
he  was  giving  him  to  the  chance  of  death.  Then  he  must 
hold  to  his  belief  in  eternity.  He  must  feel  that,  or  the  thing 
would  be  unbearable.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  gave 
conscious  thought  to  Natalie's  religious  belief.  She  believed 
in  those  things.  She  must.  She  sat  devoutly  through  the  long 
service ;  she  slipped,  with  a  little  rustle  of  soft  silk,  so  easily  to 
her  knees.  Perhaps,  if  he  went  to  her  with  that 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

FOR  a  week  after  Anna's  escape  Herman  Klein  had  sat 
alone  and  brooded.  Entirely  alone  now,  for  following 
a  stormy  scene  on  his  discovery  of  Anna's  disappearance, 
Katie  had  gone  too. 

"I  don't  know  where  she  is,"  she  had  said,  angrily,  "and 
if  I  did  know  I  wouldn't  tell  you.  If  I  was  her  I'd  have  the 
law  on  you.  Don't  you  look  at  that  strap.  You  lay  a  hand 
on  me  and  I'll  kill  you.  If  you  think  I'm  afraid  of  you,  you 
can  think  again." 

"She  is  my  daughter,  and  not  yet  of  age,"  Herman  said 
heavily.  "You  tell  her  for  me  that  she  comes  back,  or  I  go 
and  bring  her." 

"Yah!"  Katie  jeered.  "You  try  it!  She's  got  marks  on 
her  that'll  jail  you."  And  on  his  failure  to  reply  her  courage 
mounted.  "This  ain't  Germany,  you  know.  They  know  how 
to  treat  women  over  here.  And  you  ask  me" — her  voice 
rose — "and  I'll  just  say  that  there's  queer  comings  and  goings 
here  with  that  Rudolph.  I've  heard  him  say  some  things 
that'll  lock  him  up  good  and  tight." 

For  all  his  rage,  Teutonic  caution  warned  him  not  to  lay 
hands  on  the  girl.  But  his  anger  against  her  almost  strangled 
him.  Indeed,  when  she  came  down  stairs,  dragging  her  heavy 
suitcase,  he  took  a  step  or  two  toward  her,  with  his  fists 
clenched.  She  stopped,  terrified. 

"You  old  bully !"  she  said,  between  white  lips.  "You  touch 
me,  and  I'll  scream  till  I  bring  in  every  neighbor  in  the  block. 
There's  a  good  lamp-post  outside  that's  just  waiting  for  your 
sort  of  German." 

He  had  refused  to  pay  her  for  the  last  week,  also.  But  that 
she  knew  well  enough  was  because  he  was  out  of  money.  As 

243 


244 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

fast  as  Anna's  salary  had  come  in,  he  had  taken  out  of  it 
the  small  allowance  that  was  to  cover  the  week's  expenses, 
and  had  banked  the  remainder.  But  Anna  had  carried  her 
last  pay  envelope  away  with  her,  and  added  to  his  anger  at 
her  going  was  his  fear  that  he  would  have  to  draw  on  his 
savings. 

With  Katie  gone,  he  set  heavily  about  preparing  his  Sun 
day  dinner.  Long  years  of  service  done  for  him,  however, 
had  made  him  clumsy.  He  cooked  a  wretched  meal,  and  then, 
leaving  the  dishes  as  they  were,  he  sat  by  the  fire  and  brooded. 
When  Rudolph  came  in,  later,  he  found  him  there,  in  his 
stocking-feet,  a  morose  and  untidy  figure. 

Rudolph's  reception  of  the  news  roused  him,  however.  He 
looked  up,  after  the  telling,  to  find  the  younger  man  standing 
over  him  and  staring  down  at  him  with  blood-shot  eyes. 

"You  beat  her!"  he  was  saying.    "What  with?" 

"What  does  that  matter?  She  had  bought  herself  a 
watch •" 

"What  did  you  beat  her  with?"  Rudolph  was  licking  his 
lips.  Receiving  no  reply,  he  called  "Katie !" 

"Katie  has  gone." 

"Maybe  you  beat  her,  too." 

"She  wasn't  my  daughter." 

"No,  by  God !  You  wouldn't  dare  to  touch  her.  She  didn't 
belong  to  you.  You " 

"Get  out,"  said  Herman,  somberly.  He  stood  up  men 
acingly.  "You  go,  now." 

Rudolph  hesitated.    Then  he  laughed. 

"All  right,  old  top,"  he  said,  in  a  conciliatory  tone.  "No 
offense  meant.  I  lost  my  temper." 

He  picked  up  the  empty  coal-scuttle,  and  went  out  into 
the  shed  where  the  coal  was  kept.  He  needed  a  minute  to 
think.  Besides,  he  always  brought  in  coal  when  he  was 
there.  In  the  shed,  however,  he  put  down  the  scuttle  and 
stood  still. 

"The  old  devil!"  he  muttered. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 245 

But  his  rage  for  Anna  was  followed  by  rage  against  her. 
Where  was  she  to-night?  Did  Graham  Spencer  know  where 
she  was  ?  And  if  he  did,  what  then  ?  Were  they  at  that  mo 
ment  somewhere  together?  Hidden  away,  the  two  of  them? 
The  conviction  that  they  were  together  grew  on  him,  and 
with  it  a  frenzy  that  was  almost  madness.  He  left  the  coal 
scuttle  in  the  shed,  and  went  out  into  the  air.  For  a  half 
hour  he  stood  there,  looking  down  toward  the  Spencer  fur 
nace,  sending  up,  now  red,  now  violet  bursts  of  flame. 

He  was  angry  enough,  jealous  enough.  But  he  was  quick, 
too,  to  see  that  that  particular  lump  of  potters'  clay  which 
was  Herman  Klein  was  ready  for  the  wheel.  Even  while  he 
was  cursing  the  girl  his  cunning  mind  was  already  plotting, 
revenge  for  the  Spencers,  self-aggrandizement  among  his  fel 
lows  for  himself.  His  inordinate  conceit,  wounded  by  Anna's 
defection,  found  comfort  in  the  early  prospect  of  putting 
over  a  big  thing.  He  carried  the  coal  in,  to  find  Herman 
gloomily  clearing  his  untidy  table.  For  a  moment  they  worked 
in  silence,  Rudolph  at  the  stove,  Herman  at  the  sink. 

Then  Rudolph  washed  his  hands  under  the  faucet  and 
faced  the  older  man.  "How  do  you  know  she  bought  her 
self  that  watch,"  he  demanded. 

Herman  eyed  him. 

"Perhaps  you  gave  it  to  her."  Something  like  suspicion  of 
Rudolph  crept  into  his  eyes. 

"Me?    A  hundred-dollar  watch!" 

"How  do  you  know  it  cost  a  hundred  dollars?" 

"I  saw  it.  She  tried  that  story  on  me,  too.  But  I  was  too 
smart  for  her.  I  went  to  the  store  and  asked.  A  hundred 
bucks !" 

Herman's  lips  drew  back  over  his  teeth. 

"You  knew  it,  eh  ?    And  you  did  not  tell  me  ?" 

"It  wasn't  my  funeral,"  said  Rudolph  coolly.  "If  you 
wanted  to  believe  she  bought  it  herself " 

"If  she  bought  it  herself !"  Rudolph's  shoulder  was  caught 
in  an  iron  grip.  "You  will  tell  me  what  you  mean." 


246 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Well,  I  ask  you,  do  you  think  she'd  spend  that  much  on  a 
watch?  Anyhow,  the  installment  story  doesn't  go.  That 
place  doesn't  sell  on  installments." 

"Who  is  there  would  buy  her  such  a  watch?"  Herman's 
voice  was  thick. 

"How  about  Graham  Spencer  ?  She's  been  pretty  thick  with 
him." 

"How  you  mean — thick?" 

Rudolph  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  don't  mean  anything.  But  he's  taken  her  out  in  his  car. 
And  the  Spencers  think  there's  nothing  can't  be  bought  with 
money." 

Herman  put  down  the  dish-cloth  and  commenced  to  draw 
down  his  shirt  sleeves. 

"Where  you  going  ?"  Rudolph  demanded  uneasily. 

"I  go  to  the  Spencers  !" 

"Listen!"  Rudolph  said,  excitedly.  "Don't  you  do  it;  not 
yet.  You  got  to  get  him  first.  We  don't  know  anything;  we 
don't  even  know  he  gave  her  that  watch.  We've  got  to  find 
her,  don't  you  see?  And  then,  we've  got  to  learn  if  he's 
going  there — wherever  she  is." 

"I  shall  bring  her  back,"  Herman  said,  stubbornly.  "I  shall 
bring  her  back,  and  I  shall  kill  her." 

"And  get  strung  up  yourself!  Now  listen — "  he  argued. 
"You  leave  this  to  me.  I'll  find  her.  I've  got  a  friend,  a  city 
detective,  and  he'll  help  me,  see?  We'll  get  her  back,  all 
right.  Only  you've  got  to  keep  your  hands  off  her.  It's  the 
Spencers  that  have  got  to  pay." 

Herman  went  back  to  the  sink,  slowly. 

"That  is  right.    It  is  the  Spencers,"  he  muttered. 

Rudolph  went  out.  Late  in  the  evening  he  came  back, 
with  the  news  that  the  search  was  on.  And,  knowing  Her 
man's  pride,  he  assured  him  that  the  hill  need  never  learn  of 
Anna's  flight,  and  if  any  inquiries  came  he  advised  him  to 
say  the  girl  was  sick. 

In  Rudolph's  twisted  mind  it  was  not  so  much  Anna's  de- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 247 

linquency  that  enraged  him.  The  hill  had  its  own  ideas  of 
morality.  But  he  was  fiercely  jealous,  with  that  class- jealousy 
which  was  the  fundamental  actuating  motive  of  his  life.  He 
never  for  a  moment  doubted  that  she  had  gone  to  Graham. 

And,  sitting  by  the  fire  in  the  little  house,  old  Herman's 
untidy  head  shrunk  on  his  shoulders,  Rudolph  almost  forgot 
Anna  in  plotting  to  use  this  new  pawn  across  the  hearth  from 
him  in  his  game  of  destruction. 

By  the  end  of  the  week,  however,  there  was  no  news  of 
Anna.  She  had  not  returned  to  the  mill.  Rudolph's  friend 
on  the  detective  force  had  found  no  clew,  and  old  Herman 
had  advanced  from  brooding  by  the  fire  to  long  and  furious 
wanderings  about  the  city  streets. 

He  felt  no  remorse,  only  a  growing  and  alarming  fury.  He 
returned  at  night,  to  his  cold  and  unkempt  house,  to  cook 
himself  a  frugal  and  wretched  meal.  His  money  had  run 
very  low,  and  with  true  German  stubbornness  he  refused  to 
draw  any  from  the  savings  bank. 

Rudolph  was  very  busy.  There  were  meetings  always,  and 
to  the  little  inner  circle  that  met  behind  Gus's  barroom  one 
night  later  in  March,  he  divulged  the  plan  for  the  destruction 
of  the  new  Spencer  munition  plant. 

"But — will  they  take  him  back?"  one  of  the  men  asked. 
He  was  of  better  class  than  the  rest,  with  a  military  bearing 
and  a  heavy  German  accent,  for  all  his  careful  English. 

"Will  a  dog  snatch  at  a  bone  ?"  countered  Rudolph.  'Take 
him  back !  They'll  be  crazy  about  it." 

"He  has  been  there  a  long  time.  He  may,  at  the  last, 
weaken." 

But  Rudolph  only  laughed,  and  drank  more  whisky  of  the 
German  agent's  providing. 

"He  won't  weaken,"  he  said.  "Give  me  a  few  days  more  to 
find  the  girl,  and  all  hell  won't  hold  him." 

On  the  Sunday  morning  after  the  President  had  been  before 
Congress,  he  found  Herman  dressed  for  church,  but  sitting 


248  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

by  the  fire.  All  around  him  lay  the  Sunday  paper,  and  he 
barely  raised  his  head  when  Rudolph  entered. 

"Well,  it's  here !"  said  Rudolph. 

"It  has  come.    Yes." 

"Wall  Street  will  be  opening  champagne  to-day." 

Herman  said  nothing.  But  later  on  he  opened  up  the  foun 
tains  of  rage  in  his  heart.  It  was  wrong,  all  wrong.  We  had 
no  quarrel  with  Germany.  It  was  the  capitalists  and  politi 
cians  who  had  done  it.  And  above  all,  England. 

He  went  far.  He  blamed  America  and  Americans  for  his 
loss  of  work,  for  Anna's  disappearance.  He  searched  his 
mind  for  grievances  and  found  them — in  the  ore  dust  on  the 
hill,  which  killed  his  garden;  in  the  inefficiency  of  the  police, 
who  could  not  find  Anna;  in  the  very  attitude  of  Clayton 
Spencer  toward  his  resignation. 

And  on  this  smoldering  fire  Rudolph  piled  fuel.  Not  that 
he  said  a  great  deal.  He  worked  around  the  cottage,  washed 
dishes,  threw  pails  of  water  on  the  dirty  porches,  swept  the 
floor,  carried  in  coal  and  wood.  And  gradually  he  began  to 
play  on  the  older  man's  vanity.  He  had  had  great  influence 
with  the  millworkers.  No  one  man  had  ever  had  so  much. 

Old  Herman  sat  up,  and  listened  sourly.  But  after  a  time 
he  got  up  and  pouring  some  water  out  of  the  kettle,  proceeded 
to  shave  himself.  And  Rudolph  talked  on.  If  now  he  were 
to  go  back,  and  it  were  to  the  advantage  of  the  Fatherland  and 
of  the  workers  of  the  world  to  hamper  the  industry,  who  so 
able  to  do  it  as  Herman. 

"Hamper  ?  How  ?"  Herman  asked,  suspiciously,  holding  his 
razor  aloft.  He  had  a  great  fear  of  the  law. 

Rudolph  re-assured  him,  cunning  eyes  averted. 

"Well,  a  strike,"  he  suggested.  "The  men'll  listen  to  you. 
God  knows  they've  got  a  right  to  strike." 

"I  shall  not  go  back,"  said  Herman  stolidly,  and  finished  his 
shaving. 

But  Rudolph  was  satisfied.     He  left  Herman  sitting  again 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  249 

by  the  fire,  but  his  eyes  were  no  longer  brooding.  He  was 
thinking,  watching  the  smoke  curl  up  from  the  china-bowled 
German  pipe  which  he  had  brought  from  the  Fatherland,  and 
which  he  used  only  on  special  occasions. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  declaration  of  war  found  Graham  desperately  un 
happy.  Natalie  held  him  rigidly  to  his  promise,  but  it 
is  doubtful  if  Natalie  alone  could  have  kept  him  out  of  the 
army.  Marion  was  using  her  influence,  too.  She  held  him 
by  alternating  between  almost  agreeing  to  a  runaway  mar 
riage  and  threats  of  breaking  the  engagement  if  he  went  to 
war.  She  had  tacitly  agreed  to  play  Natalie's  game,  and  she 
was  doing  it. 

Graham  did  not  analyze  his  own  misery.  What  he  said  to 
himself  was  that  he  was  making  a  mess  of  things.  Life,  which 
had  seemed  to  be  a  simple  thing,  compounded  of  work  and 
play,  had  become  involved,  difficult  and  wretched. 

Some  times  he  watched  Clayton  almost  with  envy.  He 
seemed  so  sure  of  himself;  he  was  so  poised,  so  calm,  so 
strong.  And  he  wondered  if  there  had  been  a  tumultuous  youth 
behind  the  quiet  of  his  maturity.  He  compared  the  even 
course  of  Clayton's  days,  his  work,  his  club,  the  immaculate 
orderliness  of  his  life,  with  his  own  disordered  existence. 

He  was  hedged  about  with  women.  Wherever  he  turned, 
they  obtruded  themselves.  He  made  plans  and  women  brushed 
them  aside.  He  tried  to  live  his  life,  and  women  stepped  in 
and  lived  it  for  him.  His  mother,  Marion,  Anna  Klein.  Even 
Delight,  with  her  friendship  always  overclouded  with  disap 
proval.  Wherever  he  turned,  a  woman  stood  in  the  way.  Yet 
he  could  not  do  without  them.  He  needed  them  even  while 
he  resented  them. 

Then,  gradually,  into  his  self -engrossment  there  penetrated 
a  conviction  that  all  was  not  well  between  his  father  and  his 
mother.  He  had  always  taken  them  for  granted  much  as  he 
did  the  house  and  the  servants.  In  his  brief  vacations  during 

250 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 251 

his  college  days  they  had  agreed  or  disagreed,  amicably 
enough.  He  had  considered,  in  those  days,  that  life  was  a 
very  simple  thing.  People  married  and  lived  together.  Mar-( 
riage,  he  considered,  was  rather  the  end  of  things. 

But  he  was  older  now,  and  he  knew  that  marriage  was  a 
beginning  and  not  an  end.  It  did  not  change  people  funda 
mentally.  It  only  changed  their  habits. 

His  discovery  that  his  father  and  mother  differed  about 
the  war  was  the  first  of  other  discoveries;  that  they  differed 
about  him;  that  they  differed  about  many  matters;  that,  in 
deed,  they  had  no  common  ground  at  all  on  which  to  meet; 
between  them,  although  Graham  did  not  put  it  that  way,  was  a 
No-Man's  Land  strewn  with  dead  happiness,  lost  desires,  and 
the  wreckage  of  years  of  dissension. 

It  was  incredible  to  Graham  that  he  should  ever  reach  the 
forties,  but  he  wondered  some  times  if  all  of  life  was  either 
looking  forward  or  looking  back.  And  it  seemed  to  him 
rather  tragic  that  for  Clayton,  who  still  looked  like  a  boy, 
there  should  be  nothing  but  his  day  at  the  mill,  his  silent 
evening  at  home,  or  some  stodgy  dinner-party  where  the 
women  wrere  all  middle-aged,  and  the  other  men  a  trifle  corpu 
lent. 

For  the  first  time  he  was  beginning  to  think  of  Clayton  as 
a  man,  rather  than  a  father. 

Not  that  all  of  this  was  coherently  thought  out.  It  was  a 
series  of  impressions,  outgrowth  of  his  own  beginning  develop 
ment  and  of  his  own  uneasiness. 

He  wondered,  too,  about  Rodney  Page.  He  seemed  to  be 
always  around,  underfoot,  suave,  fastidious,  bowing  Natalie 
out  of  the  room  and  in  again.  He  had  deplored  the  war  until 
he  found  his  attitude  unfashionable,  and  then  he  began,  with 
great  enthusiasm,  to  arrange  pageants  for  Red  Cross  funds, 
and  even  to  make  little  speeches,  graceful  and  artificial,  pat 
terned  on  his  best  after-dinner  manner. 

Graham  was  certain  that  he  supported  his  mother  in  trying 
to  keep  him  at  home,  and  he  began  to  hate  him  with  a  healthy 


252 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

young  hate.  However,  late  in  April,  he  posed  in  one  of  the 
pageants,  rather  ungraciously,  in  a  khaki  uniform.  It  was  not 
until  the  last  minute  that  he  knew  that  Delight  Haverford  was 
to  be  the  nurse  bending  over  his  prostrate  figure.  He  turned 
rather  savage. 

"  "Rotten  nonsense,"  he  said  to  her,  when  they  stood  waiting 
to  be  posed. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.    They're  rather  pretty." 

"Pretty!    Do  you  suppose  I  want  to  be  pretty?" 

"Well,  I  do,"  said  Delight,  calmly. 

"It's  fake.  That's  what  I  hate.  If  you  were  really  a  nurse, 
and  I  was  really  in  uniform — !  But  this  parading  in  some 
body  else's  clothes,  or  stuff  hired  for  the  occasion — it's  sicken 
ing." 

Delight  regarded  him  with  clear,  appraising  eyes. 

"Why  don't  you  get  a  uniform  of  your  own,  then?"  she  in 
quired.  She  smiled  a  little. 

He  never  knew  what  the  effort  cost  her.  He  was  pale  and 
angry,  and  his  face  in  the  tableau  was  so  set  that  it  brought 
a  round  of  applause.  With  the  ringing  down  of  the  curtain 
he  confronted  her,  almost  menacingly. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  that?"  he  demanded.  "We've 
hardly  got  into  this  thing  yet." 

"We  are  in  it,  Graham." 

"Just  because  I  don't  leap  into  the  first  recruiting  office  and 
beg  them  to  take  me — what  right. have  you  got  to  call  me  a 
slacker?" 

"But  I  heard " 

"Go  on !" 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  I  heard,  if  you  are  going." 

"Of  course  I'm  going,"  he  said,  truculently. 

He  meant  it,  too.  He  would  get  Anna  settled  somewhere — 
she  had  begun  to  mend — and  then  he  would  have  it  out  with 
Marion  and  his  mother.  But  there  was  no  hurry.  The  war 
would  last  a  long  time.  And  so  it  was  that  Graham  Spencer 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 253 

joined  the  long  line  of  those  others  who  had  bought  a  piece  of 
ground,  or  five  yoke  of  oxen,  or  had  married  a  wife. 

It  was  the  morning  after  the  pageant  that  Clayton,  going 
down-town  with  him  in  the  car,  voiced  his  expectation  that 
the  government  would  take  over  their  foreign  contracts,  and 
his  feeling  that,  in  that  case,  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  profit  by 
the  nation's  necessities. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?" 

"I  mean  we  should  take  only  a  small  profit.  A  banker's 
profit." 

Graham  had  been  fairly  stunned,  and  had  sat  quiet  while 
Clayton  explained  his  attitude.  There  were  times  when  big 
profits  were  allowable.  There  was  always  the  risk  to  invested 
capital  to  consider.  But  he  did  not  want  to  grow  fat  on  the 
nation's  misfortunes.  Italy  was  one  thing.  This  was  dif 
ferent. 

"But — we  are  just  getting  on  our  feet !" 

"Think  it  over!"  said  Clayton.  "This  is  going  to  be  a  long 
war,  and  an  expensive  one.  We  don't  particularly  want  to 
profit  by  it,  do  we?" 

Graham  flushed.  He  felt  rather  small  and  cheap,  but  with 
that  there  was  a  growing  admiration  of  his  father.  Suddenly 
he  saw  that  this  man  beside  him  was  a  big  man,  one  to  be 
proud  of.  For  already  he  knew  the  cost  of  the  decision.  He 
sat  still,  turning  this  new  angle  of  war  over  in  his  mind. 

"I'd  like  to  see  some  of  your  directors  when  you  put  that 
up  to  them !" 

Clayton  nodded  rather  grimly.  He  did  not  anticipate  a 
pleasant  hour. 

"How  about  mother?" 

"I  think  we  may  take  it  for  granted  that  she  feels  as  we  do." 

Graham  pondered  that,  too. 

"What  about  the  new  place  ?" 

"It's  too  soon  to  discuss  that.  We  are  obligated  to  do  a 
certain  amount.  Of  course  it  would  be  wise  to  cut  where  we 
can." 


254 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Graham  smiled. 

"She'll  raise  the  deuce  of  a  row,"  was  his  comment. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  him  before  to  take  sides  between 
his  father  and  his  mother,  but  there  was  rising  in  him  a  new 
and  ardent  partisanship  of  his  father,  a  feeling  that  they  were, 
in  a  way,  men  together.  He  had,  more  than  once,  been  tempted 
to  go  to  him  with  the  Anna  Klein  situation.  He  would  have, 
probably,  but  a  fellow  felt  an  awful  fool  going  to  somebody 
and  telling  him  that  a  girl  was  in  love  with  him,  and  what 
the  dickens  was  he  to  do  about  it? 

He  wondered,  too,  if  anybody  would  believe  that  his  rela 
tionship  with  Anna  was  straight,  under  the  circumstances. 
For  weeks  now  he  had  been  sending  her  money,  out  of  a 
sheer  sense  of  responsibility  for  her  beating  and  her  illness. 
He  took  no  credit  for  altruism.  He  knew  quite  well  the  pos 
sibilities  of  die  situation.  He  made  no  promises  to  himself. 
But  such  attraction  as  Anna  had  had  for  him  had  been  of  her 
prettiness,  and  their  propinquity.  Again  she  was  girl,  and 
that  was  all.  And  the  attraction  was  very  faint  now.  He 
was  only  sorry  for  her. 

When  she  could  get  about  she  took  to  calling  him  up  daily 
from  a  drug-store  at  a  near-by  corner,  and  once  he  met  her 
after  dark  and  they  walked  a  few  blocks  together.  She  was 
still  weak,  but  she  was  spiritualized,  too.  He  liked  her  a 
great  deal  that  night. 

"Do  you  know  youVe  loaned  me  over  a  hundred  dollars, 
Graham?"  she  asked. 

"That's  not  a  loan.    I  owed  you  that." 

"I'll  pay  it  back.  I'm  going  to  start  to-morrow  to  look  for 
work,  and  it  won't  cost  me  much  to  live." 

"If  you  send  it  back,  I'll  buy  you  another  watch !" 

And,  tragic  as  the  subject  was,  they  both  laughed. 

"I'd  have  died  if  I  hadn't  had  you  to  think  about  when  I 
was  sick,  Graham.  I  wanted  to  die — except  for  you." 

He  had  kissed  her  then,  rather  because  he  knew  she  ex 
pected  him  to.  When  they  got  back  to  the  house  she  said : 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 255 

"You  wouldn't  care  to  come  up?" 

"I  don't  think  I  had  better,  Anna." 

"The  landlady  doesn't  object.  There  isn't  any  parlor.  All 
the  girls  have  their  callers  in  their  rooms." 

"I  have  to  go  out  to-night,"  he  said  evasively.  "I'll  come 
some  other  time." 

As  he  started  away  he  glanced  back  at  her.  She  was  stand 
ing  in  the  doorway,  eying  him  wistfully,  a  lonely  and  depressed 
little  figure.  He  was  tempted  to  throw  discretion  to  the  wind 
and  go  back.  But  he  die  not. 

On  the  day  when  G:*yton  had  broached  the  subject  of  of 
fering  their  output  ,j  the  government  at  only  a  banker's 
profit,  Anna  called  mm  up  at  his  new  office  in  the  munition 
plant. 

He  was  rather  annoyed.  His  new  secretary  was  sitting 
across  the  desk,  and  it  was  difficult  to  make  his  responses  non 
committal. 

"Graham!" 

"Yes." 

"Is  anybody  there?    Can  you  talk?" 

"Not  very  well." 

"Then  listen ;  I'll  talk.    I  want  to  see  you." 

"I'm  busy  all  day.    Sorry." 

"Listen,  Graham,  I  must  see  you.  I've  something  to  tell 
you." 

"All  right,  go  ahead." 

"It's  about  Rudolph.  I  was  out  looking  for  a  position  yes 
terday  and  I  met  him." 

"Yes?" 

He  looked  up.  Miss  Peterson  was  absently  scribbling  on 
the  cover  of  her  book,  and  listening  intently. 

"He  was  terrible,  Graham.  He  accused  me  of  all  sorts  of 
things,  about  you." 

He  almost  groaned  aloud  over  the  predicament  he  was  in. 
It  began  to  look  serious. 

"Suppose  I  pick  you  up  and  we  have  dinner  somewhere?" 


256 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"At  the  same  corner?" 

"Yes." 

He  was  very  irritable  all  morning.  He  felt  as  though  a  net 
was  closing  in  around  him,  and  his  actual  innocence  made 
him  the  more  miserable.  Miss  Peterson  found  him  very  dif 
ficult  that  day,  and  shed  tears  in  her  little  room  before  she 
went  to  lunch. 

Anna  herself  was  difficult  that  evening.  Her  landlady's  son 
had  given  up  a  good  job  and  enKsted.  Everybody  was  going. 
She  supposed  Graham  would  go  nex%  and  she'd  be  left  alone. 

"I  don't  know.     I'd  like  to." 

''Oh,  you'll  go,  all  right.  And  you'll  i  ^rget  I  ever  existed." 
She  made  an  effort.  "You're  right,  of  course.  I'm  only  look 
ing  ahead.  If  anything  happens  to  you,  I'll  kill  myself." 

The  idea  interested  her.  She  began  to  dramatize  herself, 
a  forlorn  figure,  driven  from  home,  and  deserted  by  her  lover. 
She  saw  herself  lying  in  the  cottage,  stately  and  mysterious, 
while  the  hill  girls  went  in  and  out,  and  whispered. 

"I'll  kill  myself,"  she  repeated. 

"Nothing  will  happen  to  me,  Anna   dear." 

"I  don't  know  why  I  care  so.    I'm  nothing  to  you." 

"That's  not  so." 

"If  you  cared,  you'd  have  come  up  the  other  night.  You 
left  me  alone  in  that  lonesome  hole,  it's  ell,  that  place.  All 
smells  and  whispering  and  dirt." 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Anna.  You're  tired,  or  you  wouldn't 
say  that.  You  know  I'm  fond  of  you.  But  I've  got  you  into 
trouble  enough.  I'm  not — for  God's  sake  don't  tempt  me, 
Anna." 

She  looked  at  him  half  scornfully. 

"Tempt  you!"  Then  she  gave  a  little  scream.  Graham 
following  her  eyes  looked  through  the  window  near  them. 

"Rudolph!"  she  whimpered.  And  began  to  weep  out  of 
pure  terror. 

But  Grahan?  saw  nobody.  To  soothe  her,  however,  he  went 
outside  and  looked  about.  There  were  half  a  dozen  cars,  a 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 257 

group  of  chauffeurs,  but  no  Rudolph.  He  went  back  to  her, 
to  find  her  sitting,  pale  and  tense,  her  hands  clenched  together. 

"They'll  pay  you  out  some  way,"  she  said.  "I  know  them. 
They'll  never  believe  the  truth.  That  was  Rudolph,  all  right. 
He'll  think  we're  living  together.  He'd  never  believe  anything 
else." 

"Do  you  think  he  followed  you  the  other  day?" 

"I  gave  him  the  shake,  in  the  crowd." 

"Then  I  don't  see  why  you're  worrying.  We're  just  where 
we  were  before,  aren't  we  ?" 

"You  don't  know  them.    I  do.    They'll  be  up  to  something." 

She  was  excited  and  anxious,  and  with  the  cocktail  he 
ordered  for  her  she  grew  reckless. 

"I'm  just  hung  around  your  neck  like  a  stone,"  she  lamented. 
"You  don't  care  a  rap  for  me;  I  know  it.  You're  just  sorry 
for  me." 

Her  eyes  filled  again,  and  Graham  rose,  with  an  impatient 
movement. 

"Let's  get  out  of  this,"  he  said  roughly.  "The  whole  place 
is  staring  at  you." 

But  on  the  road  the  fact  that  she  had  been  weeping  for 
him  made  him  relent.  He  put  an  arm  around  her  and  drew 
her  to  him. 

"Don't  cry,  honey,"  he  said.  "It  makes  me  unhappy  to  see 
you  miserable." 

He  kissed  her.  And  they  clung  together,  finding  a  little 
comfort  in  the  contact  of  warm  young  bodies. 

He  went  up  to  her  room  that  night.  He  was  more  anxious 
as  to  Rudolph  than  he  cared  to  admit,  but  he  went  up,  treading 
softly  on  stairs  that  creaked  with  every  step.  He  had  no 
coherent  thoughts.  He  wanted  companionship  rather  than 
love.  He  was  hungry  for  what  she  gave  him,  the  touch  of  her 
hands  about  his  neck,  the  sense  of  his  manhood  that  shone 
from  her  faithful  eyes,  the  admiration  and  unstinting  love  she 
offered  him. 

But  alone  in  the  little  room  he  had  a  reaction,  not  the  less 


258  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

keen  because  it  was  his  fastidious  rather  than  his  moral  sense 
that  revolted.  The  room  was  untidy,  close,  sordid.  Even 
Anna's  youth  did  not  redeem  it.  Again  he  had  the  sense, 
when  he  had  closed  the  door,  of  being  caught  in  a  trap,  and 
this  time  a  dirty  trap.  When  she  had  taken  off  her  hat,  and 
held  up  her  face  to  be  kissed,  he  knew  he  would  not  stay. 

"It's  awful,  isn't  it?"  she  asked,  following  his  eyes. 

"It  doesn't  look  like  you.    That's  sure." 

"I  hurried  out.     It's  not  so  bad  when  it's  tidy." 

He  threw  up  the  window,  and  stood  there  a  moment.  The 
spring  air  was  cool  and  clean,  and  there  was  a  sound  of 
tramping  feet  below.  He  looked  down.  The  railway  station 
was  near-by,  and  marching  toward  it,  with  the  long  swing  of 
regulars,  a  company  of  soldiers  was  moving  rapidly.  The 
night,  the  absence  of  drums  or  music,  the  businesslike  rapidity 
of  their  progress,  held  him  there,  looking  down.  He  turned 
around.  Anna  had  slipped  off  her  coat,  and  had  opened  the 
collar  of  her  blouse.  Her  neck  gleamed  white  and  young. 
She  smiled  at  him. 

"I  guess  I'll  be  going,"  he  stammered. 

"Going!" 

"I  only  wanted  to  see  how  you  are  fixed."  His  eyes  evaded 
hers.  "I'll  see  you  again  in  a  day  or  two.  I " 

He  could  not  tell  her  the  thoughts  that  were  surging  in  him. 
The  country  was  at  war.  Those  fellows  below  there  were 
already  in  it,  of  it.  And  here  in  this  sordid  room,  he  had 
meant  to  take  her,  not  because  he  loved  her,  but  because  she 
offered  herself.  It  was  cheap.  It  was  terrible.  It  was — 
dirty. 

"Good  night,"  he  said,  and  tried  to  kiss  her.  But  she  turned 
her  face  away.  She  stood  listening  to  his  steps  on  the  stairs 
as  he  went  down,  steps  that  mingled  and  were  lost  in  the 
steady  tramp  of  the  soldiers'  feet  in  the  street  below. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

WITH  nis  many  new  problems  following  the  declaration  of 
war,  Clayton  Spencer  found  a  certain  peace.  It  was 
good  to  work  hard.  It  was  good  to  fill  every  working  hour, 
and  to  drop  into  sleep  at  night  too  weary  for  consecutive 
thought. 

Yet  had  he  been  frank  with  himself  he  would  have  ac 
knowledged  that  Audrey  was  never  really  out  of  his  mind. 
Back  of  his  every  decision  lay  his  desire  for  her  approval. 
He  did  not  make  them  with  her  consciously  in  his  mind,  but 
he  wanted  her  to  know  and  understand.  In  his  determination, 
for  instance,  to  offer  his  shells  to  the  government  at  a  nominal 
profit,  there  was  no  desire  to  win  her  approbation. 

It  was  rather  that  he  felt  her  behind  him  in  the  decision. 

He  shrank  from  telling  Natalie.  Indeed,  until  he  had  re 
turned  from  Washington  he  did  not  broach  the  subject.  And 
then  he  was  tired  and  rather  discouraged,  and  as  a  result 
almost  brutally  abrupt. 

Coming  on  top  of  a  hard  fight  with  the  new  directorate,  a 
fight  which  he  had  finally  won,  Washington  was  disheartening. 
Planning  enormously  for  the  future,  it  seemed  to  have  no 
vision  for  the  things  of  the  present.  He  was  met  vaguely,  put 
off,  questioned.  He  waited  hours,  as  patiently  as  he  could, 
to  find  that  no  man  seemed  to  have  power  to  act,  or  to  know 
what  powers  he  had. 

He  found  something  else,  too — a  suspicion  of  him,  of  his 
motives.  Who  offered  something  for  nothing  must  be  actuated 
by  some  deep  and  hidden  motive.  He  found  his  plain  proposi 
tion  probed  and  searched  for  some  ulterior  purpose  behind  it. 

"It's  the  old  distrust,  Mr.  Spencer,"  said  Hutchinson,  who 
had  gone  with  him  to  furnish  figures  and  various  data.  "Thp 

259 


260 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Democrats  are  opposed  to  capital.  They're  afraid  of  it.  And 
the  army  thinks  all  civilians  are  on  the  make — which  is  pretty 
nearly  true." 

He  saw  the  Secretary  of  War,  finally,  and  came  away  feel 
ing  better.  He  had  found  there  an  understanding  that  a  man 
may — even  should — make  sacrifices  for  his  country  during 
war.  But,  although  he  carried  away  with  him  the  conviction 
that  his  offer  would  ultimately  be  accepted,  there  was  nothing 
actually  accomplished.  He  sent  Hutchinson  back,  and  waited 
for  a  day  or  two,  convinced  that  his  very  sincerity  must  bring 
a  concrete  result,  and  soon. 

Then,  lunching  alone  one  day  in  the  Shoreham,  he  saw 
Audrey  Valentine  at  another  table.  He  had  not  seen  her  for 
weeks,  and  he  had  an  odd  moment  of  breathlessness  when  his 
eyes  fell  on  her.  She  was  pale  and  thin,  and  her  eyes  looked 
very  tired.  His  first  impulse  was  to  go  to  her.  The  second, 
on  which  he  acted,  was  to  watch  her  for  a  little,  to  fill  his  eyes 
for  the  long  months  of  emptiness  ahead. 

She  was  with  a  man  in  uniform,  a  young  man,  gay  and 
smiling.  He  was  paying  her  evident  court,  in  a  debonair 
fashion,  bending  toward  her  across  the  table.  Suddenly  Clay 
ton  was  jealous,  fiercely  jealous. 

The  jealousy  of  the  young  is  sad  enough,  but  it  is  an  ephem 
eral  thing.  Life  calls  from  many  directions.  There  is  al 
ways  the  future,  and  the  things  of  the  future.  And  behind  it 
there  is  the  buoyancy  and  easy  forgetfulness  of  youth.  But 
the  jealousy  of  later  years  knows  no  such  relief.  It  sees  time 
flying  and  happiness  evading  it.  It  has  not  the  easy  self-con 
fidence  of  the  twenties.  It  has  learned,  too,  that  happiness  is 
a  rare  elusive  thing,  to  be  held  and  nursed  and  clung  to,  and 
that  even  love  must  be  won  and  held. 

It  has  learned  that  love  must  be  free,  but  its  instinct  is  to 
hold  it  with  chains. 

He  suffered  acutely,  and  was  ashamed  of  his  suffering. 
After  all,  Audrey  was  still  young.  Life  had  not  been  kind  to 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 261 

her,  and  she  should  be  allowed  to  have  such  happiness  as  she 
could.  He  could  offer  her  nothing. 

He  would  give  her  up.  He  had  already  given  her  up. 
She  knew  it. 

Then  she  saw  him,  and  his  determination  died  under  the 
light  that  came  in  her  eyes.  Give  her  up !  How  could  he  give 
her  up,  when  she  was  everything  he  had  in  the  world  ?  With 
a  shock,  he  recognized  in  the  thought  Natalie's  constant  repeti 
tion  as  to  Graham.  So  he  had  come  to  that ! 

He  felt  Audrey's  eyes  on  him,  but  he  did  not  go  to  her.  He 
signed  his  check,  and  went  out.  He  fully  meant  to  go  away 
without  seeing  her.  But  outside  he  hesitated.  That  would 
hurt  her,  and  it  was  cowardly.  When,  a  few  moments  later,, 
she  came  out,  followed  by  the  officer,  it  was  to  find  him  there, 
obviously  waiting. 

"I  wondered  if  you  would  dare  to  run  away!"  she  said. 
"This  is  Captain  Sloane,  Clay,  and  he  knows  a  lot  about  you." 

Close  inspection  showed  Sloane  handsome,  bronzed,  and 
with  a  soft  Southern  voice,  somewhat  like  Audrey's.  And 
it  developed  that  he  came  from  her  home,  and  was  on  his  way 
to  one  of  the  early  camps.  He  obviously  intended  to  hold 
on  to  Audrey,  and  Clayton  left  them  there  with  the  feeling  that 
Audrey's  eyes  were  following  him,  wistful  and  full  of  trouble. 
He  had  not  even  asked  her  where  she  was  stopping. 

He  took  a  long  walk  that  afternooon,  and  re-made  his  noon- 
hour  resolution.  He  would  keep  away  from  her.  It  might 
hurt  her  at  first,  but  she  was  young.  She  would  forget.  And 
he  must  not  stand  in  her  way.  Having  done  which,  he  re 
turned  to  the  Shoreham  and  spent  an  hour  in  a  telephone 
booth,  calling  hotels  systematically  and  inquiring  for  her. 

When  he  finally  located  her  his  voice  over  the  wire  startled 
her. 

"Good  heavens,  Clay,"  she  said.  "Are  you  angry  about 
anything  ?" 

"Of  course  not.  I  just  wanted  to — I  am  leaving  to-night 
and  I'm  saying  good-by.  That's  all." 


262 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Oh !"     She  waited. 

"Have  you  had  a  pleasant  afternoon?" 

"Aren't  you  going  to  see  me  before  you  go?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Don't  you  want  to  know  what  I  am  doing  in  Washington?" 

"That's  fairly  clear,  isn't  it  ?" 

"You  are  being  rather  cruel,  Clay." 

He  hesitated.  He  was  amazed  at  his  own  attitude.  Then, 
"Will  you  dine  with  me  to-night?" 

"I  kept  this  evening  for  you." 

But  when  he  saw  her,  his  sense  of  discomfort  only  in 
creased.  Their  dining  together  was  natural  enough.  It  was 
not  even  faintly  clandestine.  But  the  new  restraint  he  put  on 
himself  made  him  reserved  and  unhappy.  He  could  not  act  a 
part.  And  after  a  time  Audrey  left  off  acting,  too,  and  he 
found  her  watching  him.  On  the  surface  he  talked,  but  under 
neath  it  he  saw  her  unhappiness,  and  her  understanding  of  his. 

"I'm  going  back,  too,"  she  said.  "I  came  down  to  see  what 
I  can  do,  but  there  is  nothing  for  the  untrained  woman.  She's 
a  cumberer  of  the  earth.  I'll  go  home  and  knit.  I  daresay  I 
ought  to  be  able  to  learn  to  do  that  well,  anyhow." 

"Have  you  forgiven  me  for  this  afternoon?" 

"I  wasn't  angry.     I  understood." 

That  was  it,  in  a  nutshell.  Audrey  understood.  She  was 
that  sort.  She  never  held  small  resentments.  He  rather 
thought  she  never  felt  them. 

"Don't  talk  about  me,"  she  said.  'Tell  me  about  you  and 
why  you  are  here.  It's  the  war,  of  course." 

So,  rather  reluctantly,  he  told  her.  He  shrank  from  seeming 
to  want  her  approval,  but  at  the  same  time  he  wanted  it.  His 
faith  in  himself  had  been  shaken.  He  needed  it  restored.  And 
some  of  the  exaltation  which  had  led  him  to  make  his  proffer 
to  the  government  came  back  when  he  saw  how  she  flushed 
over  it. 

"It's  very  big,"  she  said,  softly.  "It's  like  you,  Clay.  And 
that's  the  best  thing  I  can  say.  I  am  very  proud  of  you." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 263 

"I  would  rather  have  you  proud  of  me  than  anything  in 
the  world,"  he  said,  unsteadily. 

They  drifted,  somehow,  to  talking  of  happiness.  And  al 
ways,  carefully  veiled,  it  was  their  own  happiness  they  dis 
cussed. 

"I  don't  think/'  she  said,  glancing  away  from  him,  "that  one 
finds  it  by  looking  for  it.  That  is  selfish,  and  the  selfish  are 
never  happy.  It  comes — oh,  in  queer  ways.  When  you're  try 
ing  to  give  it  to  somebody  else,  mostly." 

"There  is  happiness,  of  a  sort,  in  work." 

Their  eyes  met.  That  was  what  they  had  to  face,  she  dedi 
cated  to  service,  he  to  labor. 

"It's  never  found  by  making  other  people  unhappy,  Clay." 

"No.  And  yet,  if  the  other  people  are  already  un 
happy " 

"Never!"  she  said.  And  the  answer  was  to  the  unspoken 
question  in  both  their  hearts. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  in  the  taxicab  that  Clayton 
forced  the  personal  note,  and  then  it  came  as  a  cry,  out  of 
the  very  depths  of  him.  She  had  slipped  her  hand  into  his, 
and  the  comfort  of  even  that  small  touch  broke  down  the  bar 
riers  he  had  so  carefully  erected. 

"I  need  you  so!"  he  said.  And  he  held  her  hand  to  his 
face.  She  made  no  movement  to  withdraw  it. 

"I  need  you,  too,"  she  replied.  "I  never  get  over  needing 
you.  But  we  are  going  to  play  the  game,  Clay.  We  may 
have  our  weak  hours — and  this  is  one  of  them — but  always, 
please  God,  we'll  play  the  game." 

The  curious  humility  he  felt  with  her  was  in  his  voice. 

"I'll  need  your  help,  even  in  that." 

And  that  touch  of  boyishness  almost  broke  down  her  re 
serve  of  strength.  She  wanted  to  draw  his  head  down  on  her 
shoulder,  and  comfort  him.  She  wanted  to  smooth  back  his 
heavy  hair,  and  put  her  arms  around  him  and  hold  him.  There 
was  a  great  tenderness  in  her  for  him.  There  were  times 
when  she  would  have  given  the  world  to  have  gone  into  his 


264 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

arms  and  let  him  hold  her  there,  protected  and  shielded.  But 
that  night  she  was  the  stronger,  and  she  knew  it. 

"I  love  you,  Audrey.     I  love  you  terribly." 

And  that  was  the  word  for  it.  It  was  terrible.  She  knew 
it. 

"To  have  gone  through  all  the  world,"  he  said,  brokenly, 
"and  then  to  find  the  woman,  when  it  is  too  late.  Forever 
too  late/'  He  turned  toward  her.  "You  know  it,  don't  you  ? 
That  you  are  my  woman  ?" 

"I  know  it,"  she  answered,  steadily.    "But  I  know,  too " 

"Let  me  say  it  just  once.  Then  never  again.  I'll  bury  it,  but 
you  will  know  it  is  there.  You  are  my  woman.  I  would  go 
through  all  of  life  alone,  to  find  you  at  the  end.  And  if  I 
could  look  forward,  dear,  to  going  through  the  rest  of  it 
with  you  beside  me,  so  I  could  touch  you,  like  this " 

"I  know." 

"If  I  could  only  protect  you,  and  shield  you — oh,  how  ten 
derly  I  could  care  for  you,  my  dear,  my  dear !" 

The  strength  passed  to  him,  then.  Audrey  had  a  clear 
picture  of  what  life  with  him  might  mean,  of  his  protection, 
his  tenderness.  She  had  never  known  it.  Suddenly  every  bit 
of  her  called  out  for  his  care,  his  quiet  strength. 

"Don't  make  me  sorry  for  myself."  There  were  tears  in 
her  eyes.  "Will  you  kiss  me,  Clay?  We  might  have  that  to 
remember." 

But  they  were  not  to  have  even  that,  for  the  taxicab  drew 
up  before  her  hotel.  It  was  one  of  the  absurd  anti-climaxes 
of  life  that  they  should  part  with  a  hand-clasp  and  her  formal 
"Thank  you  for  a  lovely  evening." 

Audrey  was  the  better  actor  of  the  two.  She  went  in  as 
casually  as  though  she  had  not  put  the  only  happiness  of  her 
life  away  from  her.  But  Clayton  Spencer  stood  on  the  pave 
ment,  watching  her  in,  and  all  the  tragedy  of  the  empty  years 
ahead  was  in  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

T  EFT  alone  in  her  untidy  room  after  Graham's  abrupt  de- 
JL^  parture,  Anna  Klein  was  dazed.  She  stood  where  he 
left  her,  staring  ahead.  What  had  happened  meant  only  one 
thing  to  her,  that  Graham  no  longer  cared  about  her,  and,  if 
that  was  true,  she  did  not  care  to  live. 

It  never  occurred  to  her  that  he  had  done  rather  a  fine 
thing,  or  that  he  had  protected  her  against  herself.  She  felt 
no  particular  shame,  save  the  shame  of  rejection.  In  her  small 
world  of  the  hill,  if  a  man  gave  a  girl  valuable  gifts  or  money 
there  was  generally  a  quid  pro  quo.  If  the  girl  was  unwilling, 
she  did  not  accept  such  gifts.  If  the  man  wanted  nothing,  he 
did  not  make  them.  And  men  who  made  love  to  girls  either 
wanted  to  marry  them  or  desired  some  other  relationship  with 
them. 

She  listened  to  his  retreating1  footsteps,  and  then  began, 
automatically  to  unbutton  her  thin  white  blouse.  But  with  the 
sound  of  the  engine  of  his  car  below  she  ran  to  the  window, 
She  leaned  out,  elbows  on  the  sill,  and  watched  him  go, 
without  a  look  up  at  her  window. 

So  that  was  the  end  of  that ! 

Then,  all  at  once,  she  was  fiercely  angry.  He  had  got  her 
into  this  scrape,  and  now  he  had  left  her.  He  had  pretended 
to  love  her,  and  all  the  time  he  had  meant  to  do  just  this,  to 
let  her  offer  herself  so  he  might  reject  her.  He  had  been 
playing  with  her.  She  had  lost  her  home  because  of  him, 
had  been  beaten  almost  insensible,  had  been  ill  for  weeks,  and 
now  he  had  driven  away,  without  even  looking  back. 

She  jerked  her  blouse  off,  still  standing  by  the  window,  and 
when  the  sleeve  caught  on  her  watch,  she  jerked  that  off,  too, 
S1.c  stoou  for  a  moment  with  it  in  her  hand,  her  face  twisted 

265 


266  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

with  shame  and  anger.  Then  recklessly  and  furiously  she 
flung  it  through  the  open  window. 

In  the  stillness  of  the  street  far  below  she  heard  it  strike 
and  rebound. 

"That  for  him !"  she  muttered. 

Almost  immediately  she  wanted  it  again.  He  had  given  it  to 
her.  It  was  all  she  had  left  now,  and  in  a  curious  way  it  had, 
through  long  wearing,  come  to  mean  Graham  to  her.  She 
leaned  out  of  the  window.  She  thought  she  saw  it  gleaming  in 
the  gutter,  and  already,  attracted  by  the  crash,  a  man  was 
crossing  the  street  to  where  it  lay. 

"You  let  that  alone,"  she  called  down  desperately.  The 
figure  was  already  stooping  over  it.  Entirely  reckless  now,  she 
ran,  bare-armed  and  bare-bosomed,  down  the  stairs  and  out 
into  the  street.  She  had  thought  to  see  its  finder  escaping, 
but  he  was  still  standing  where  he  had  picked  it  up. 

"It's  mine,"  she  began.  "I  dropped  it  out  of  the  windov;. 
j » 

"You  threw  it  out  of  the  window.    I  saw  you." 

It  was  Rudolph. 

"You "  He  snarled,  and  stood  with  menacing  eyes  fixed 

Dn  her  bare  neck. 

"Rudolph !" 

"Get  into  the  house,"  he  said  roughly.    "You're  half-naked." 

"Give  me  my  watch." 

"I'll  give  it  to  you,  all  right.  What's  left  of  it.  When 
we  get  in." 

He  followed  her  into  the  hall,  but  when  she  turned  there 
and  held  out  her  hand,  he  only  snarled  again. 

"We'll  talk  up-stairs." 

"I  can't  take  you  up.    The  landlady  don't  allow  it." 

"She  don't,  eh?     You  had  that  Spencer  skunk  up  there." 

His  face  frightened  her,  and  she  lied  vehemently. 

"That's  not  so,  and  you  know  it,  Rudolph  Klein.  He  came 
inside,  just  like  this,  and  we  stood  and  talked.  Then  he  went 
away.  He  wasn't  inside  ten  minutes."  Her  voice  rose 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  267 

hysterically,  but  Rudolph  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and  pushing 
her  ahead  of  him,  forced  her  up  the  stairs. 

"We're  going  to  have  this  out,"  he  muttered,  viciously. 

Half  way  up  she  stopped. 

"You're  hurting  my  arm." 

"You  be  glad  I'm  not  breaking  it  for  you." 

He  climbed  in  a  mounting  fury.  He  almost  threw  her 
into  her  room,  and  closing  the  door,  he  turned  the  key  in  it. 
His  face  reminded  her  of  her  father's  the  night  he  had  beaten 
her,  and  her  instinct  of  self-preservation  made  her  put  the 
little  table  between  them. 

"You  lay  a  hand  on  me,"  she  panted,  "and  I'll  yell  out  the 
window.  The  police  would  be  glad  enough  to  have  something 
on  you,  Rudolph  Klein,  and  you  know  it." 

"They  arrest  women  like  you,  too." 

"Don't  you  dare  say  that."  And  as  he  took  a  step  or  two 
toward  her  she  retreated  to  the  window.  "You  stay  there,  or 
I'll  jump  out  of  the  window." 

She  looked  desperate  enough  to  do  it,  and  Rudolph  hesi 
tated. 

"He  was  up  here.  I  saw  him  at  the  window.  I've  been 
trailing  you  all  evening.  Keep  off  that  window-sill,  you  little 
fool !  I'm  not  going  to  kill  you.  But  I'm  going  to  get  him, 
all  right,  and  don't  you  forget  it." 

His  milder  tone  and  the  threat  frightened  her  more  than 
ever.  He  would  get  Graham;  he  was  like  that.  Get  him  in 
some  cruel,  helpless  way;  that  was  the  German  blood  in  him. 
She  began  to  play  for  time,  with  instinctive  cunning. 

"Listen,  Rudolph,"  she  said.  "I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  He 
did  come  up,  but  he  left  right  away.  We  quarreled.  He 
threw  me  over,  Rudolph.  That's  what  he  did." 

Her  own  words  reminded  her  of  her  humiliation,  and  tears 
came  into  her  eyes. 

"He  threw  me  over!  Honest  he  did.  That's  why  I  threw 
his  watch  out  of  the  window.  That's  straight,  Rudolph. 
That's  straight  goods.  I'm  not  lying  now." 


268  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"God !"  said  Rudolph.  'The  dirty  pup.  Then— then  you're 
through  with  him,  eh?" 

"I'm  through,  all  right." 

Her  tone  carried  conviction.  Rudolph's  face  relaxed,  and 
seeing  that,  she  remembered  her  half-dressed  condition. 

"Throw  me  that  waist,"  she  said. 

"Come  around  and  get  it." 

"Aw,  Rudolph,  throw  it.    Please !" 

"Getting  modest,  all  at  once,"  he  jeered.  But  he  picked  it 
up  and  advanced  to  the  table  with  it.  As  she  held  out  her 
hand  for  it  he  caught  her  and  drew  her  forward  toward  him, 
across  the  table. 

"You  little  devil !"  he  said,  and  kissed  her. 

She  submitted,  because  she  must,  but  she  shivered.  If  she 
was  to  save  Graham  she  must  play  the  game.  And  so  far 
she  was  winning.  She  was  feminine  enough  to  know  that  al 
ready  the  thing  he  thought  she  had  done  was  to  be  forgiven 
her.  More  than  that,  she  saw  a  half -reluctant  admiration  in 
Rudolph's  eyes,  as  though  she  had  gained  value,  if  she  had  lost 
virtue,  by  the  fact  that  young  Spencer  had  fancied  her.  And 
Rudolph's  morals  were  the  morals  of  many  of  his  kind.  He 
admired  chastity  in  a  girl,  but  he  did  not  expect  it. 

But  she  was  watchful  for  the  next  move  he  might  make. 
That  it  was  not  what  she  expected  did  not  make  it  the  less 
terrifying. 

"You  get  your  hat  and  coat  on." 

"I'll  not  do  anything  of  the  kind." 

"D'you  think  I'm  going  to  leave  you  here,  where  he  can 
come  back  whenever  he  wants  to?  You  think  again!" 

"Where  are  you  going  to  take  me?" 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  home." 

When  pleading  made  no  impression  on  him,  and  when  he 
refused  to  move  without  her,  she  threw  her  small  wardrobe 
into  the  suitcase,  and  put  her  hat  and  coat  on.  She  was  past 
thinking,  quite  hopeless.  She  would  go  back,  and  her  father 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 269 

would  kill  her,  which  would  be  the  best  thing  anyhow;  she 
didn't  care  to  live. 

Rudolph  had  relapsed  into  moody  silence.  Down  the  stairs, 
and  on  the  street  he  preceded  her,  contemptuously  letting  her 
trail  behind.  He  carried  her  suitcase,  however,  and  once,  be 
ing  insecurely  fastened,  it  opened  and  bits  of  untidy  apparel 
littered  the  pavement.  He  dropped  the  suitcase  and  stood 
by  while  she  filled  it  again.  The  softness  of  that  moment, 
when,  lured  by  her  bare  arms  he  had  kissed  her,  was  gone. 

The  night  car  jolted  and  swayed.  After  a  time  he  dozed, 
and  Anna,  watching  him,  made  an  attempt  at  flight.  He  caught 
her  on  the  rear  platform,  however,  with  a  clutch  that  sickened 
her.  The  conductor  eyed  them  with  the  scant  curiosity  of  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  all  the  waking  world  is  awry. 

At  last  they  were  climbing  the  hill  to  the  cottage,  while 
behind  and  below  them  the  Spencer  furnaces  sent  out  their 
orange  and  violet  flames,  and  the  roar  of  the  blast  sounded 
like  the  coming  of  a  mighty  wind. 

The  cottage  was  dark.  Rudolph  put  down  the  suitcase,  and 
called  Herman  softly  through  his  hands.  Above  they  could 
hear  him  moving,  and  his  angry  voice  came  through  the  open 
window. 

"What  you  want?" 

"Come  down.    It's  Rudolph." 

But  when  he  turned  Anna  was  lying  in  a  dead  faint  on  the 
garden  path,  a  crumpled  little  heap  of  blissful  forgetfulness. 
When  Herman  came  down,  it  was  to  find  Rudolph  standing 
over  her,  the  suitcase  still  in  his  hand,  and  an  ugly  scowl 
on  his  face. 

"Well,  I  got  her,"  he  said.  "She's  scared,  that's  all."  He 
prodded  her  with  his  foot,  but  she  did  not  move,  and  Herman 
bent  down  with  his  candle. 

He  straightened. 

"Bring  her  in,"  he  said,  and  led  the  way  into  the  house. 
When  Rudolph  staggered  in,  with  Anna  in  his  arms,  he  found 
Herman  waiting  and  fingering  the  leather  strap. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

AUDREY  had  found  something  to  do  at  last.    It  was  Cap 
tain  Sloane  who  had  given  her  the  idea. 

"You  would  make  a  great  hit,  Audrey,"  he  had  said.  "It's 
your  voice,  you  know.  There's  something  about  it — well,  you 
know  the  effect  it  always  has  on  me.  No?  All  right,  I'll 
be  good." 

But  she  had  carried  the  idea  home  with  her,  and  had  pro 
ceeded,  with  her  customary  decision,  to  act  on  it. 

Then,  one  day  in  May,  she  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from 
Delight  Haverford.  She  had  come  home,  tired  and  rather 
depressed,  to  find  the  Haverford  car  at  the  door,  and  Delight 
waiting  for  her  in  her  sitting-room. 

Audrey's  acquaintance  with  Delight  had  been  rather  frag 
mentary,  but  it  had  covered  a  long  stretch  of  time.  So,  if  she 
was  surprised,  it  was  not  greatly  when  Delight  suddenly  kissed 
her.  She  saw  then  that  the  girl  had  brought  her  some  spring 
flowers,  and  the  little  tribute  touched  her. 

"What  a  nice  child  you  are !"  she  said,  and  standing  before 
the  mirror  proceeded  to  take  off  her  hat.  Before  her  she  could 
see  the  reflection  of  Delight's  face,  and  her  own  tired,  slightly 
haggard  eyes. 

"And  how  unutterably  old  you  make  me  look !"  she  added, 
smiling. 

"You  are  too  lovely  for  words,  Mrs.  Valentine." 

Audrey  patted  her  hair  into  order,  and  continued  her  smiling 
inspection  of  the  girl's  face. 

"And  now  we  have  exchanged  compliments,"  she  said,  ''we 
will  have  some  tea,  and  then  you  shall  tell  me  what  you  are  so 
excited  about." 

"I  am  excited ;  I " 

270 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  271 

"Let's  have  the  tea  first." 

Audrey's  housekeeping  was  still  rather  casual.  Tidiness 
of  Natalie's  meticulous  order  would  always  be  beyond  her,  but 
after  certain  frantic  searches  for  what  was  needed,  she  made 
some  delicious  tea. 

"Order  was  left  out  of  me,  somehow,"  she  complained.  "Or 
else  things  move  about  when  I'm  away.  I'm  sure  it  is  that, 
because  I  certainly  never  put  the  sugar  behind  my  best  hat. 
Now — let's  have  it." 

Delight  was  only  playing  with  her  tea.  She  flushed  deli 
cately,  and  put  the  cup  down. 

"I  was  in  the  crowd  this  morning,"  she  said. 

"In  the  crowd?    Oh,  my  crowd!" 

"Yes." 

"I  see,"  said  Audrey,  thoughtfully.  "I  make  a  dreadful 
speech,  you  know." 

"I  thought  you  were  wonderful.  And,  when  those  men 
promised  to  enlist,  I  cried.  I  was  horribly  ashamed.  But 
you  were  splendid." 

"I  wonder !"  said  Audrey,  growing  grave.  Delight  was 
astonished  to  see  that  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  "I  do 
it  because  it  is  all  I  can  do,  and  of  course  they  must  go. 
But  some  times  at  night — you  see,  my  dear,  some  of  them  are 
going  to  be  killed.  I  am  urging  them  to  go,  but  the  better 
the  day  I  have  had,  the  less  I  sleep  at  night." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Delight  was  thinking  desperately 
of  something  to  say. 

"But  you  didn't  come  to  talk  about  me,  did  you?" 

"Partly.  And  partly  about  myself.  I  want  to  do  some 
thing,  Mrs.  Valentine.  I  can  drive  a  car,  but  not  very  well. 
I  don't  know  a  thing  about  the  engine.  And  I  can  nurse  a 
little.  I  like  nursing." 

Audrey  studied  her  face.  It  seemed  to  her  sad  beyond 
words  that  this  young  girl,  who  should  have  had  only  happi 
ness,  was  facing  the  horrors  of  what  would  probably  be  a  long 
war.  It  was  the  young  who  paid  the  price  of  war,  in  death, 


272 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

in  empty  years.  Already  the  careless  gayety  of  their  lives 
Was  gone.  For  the  dream  futures  they  had  planned  they  had 
now  to  substitute  long  waiting;  for  happiness,  service. 

"The  Red  Cross  is  going  to  send  canteen  workers  to  France. 
You  might  do  that." 

"If  I  only  could!  But  I  can't  leave  mother.  Not  entirely. 
Father  is  going.  He  wants  to  go  and  fight,  but  I'm  afraid 
they  won't  take  him.  He'll  go  as  a  chaplain,  anyhow.  But 
he's  perfectly  helpless,  you  know.  Mother  says  she  is  going 
to  tie  his  overshoes  around  his  neck." 

"I'll  see  if  I  can  think  of  something  for  you,  Delight. 
There's  one  thing  in  my  mind.  There  are  to  be  little  houses 
built  in  all  the  new  training-camps  for  officers,  and  they  are 
to  be  managed  by  women.  They  are  to  serve  food — sand 
wiches  and  coffee,  I  think.  They  may  be  even  more  pre 
tentious.  I  don't  know,  but  I'll  find  out." 

"I'll  do  anything,"  said  Delight,  and  got  up.  It  was  then 
that  Audrey  realized  that  there  was  something  more  to  the 
visit  than  had  appeared,  for  Delight,  ready  to  go,  hesitated. 

"There  is  something  else,  Mrs.  Valentine,"  she  said,  rather 
slowly.  "What  would  you  do  if  a  young  man  wanted  to  go 
into  the  service,  and  somebody  held  him  back?" 

"His  own  people?" 

"His  mother.     And — a  girl." 

"I  would  think  the  army  is  well  off  without  him." 

Delight  flushed  painfully. 

"Perhaps,"  she  admitted.  "But  is  it  right  just  to  let  it 
go  at  that?  If  you  like  people,  it  seems  wrong  just  to  stand 
by  and  let  others  ruin  their  lives  for  them." 

"Only  very  weak  men  let  women  ruin  their  lives." 

But  already  she  began  to  understand  the  situation. 

'"There's  a  weakness  that  is  only  a  sort  of  habit.  It  may 
come  from  not  wanting  to  hurt  somebody."  Delight  was  pull 
ing  nervously  at  her  gloves.  "And  there  is  this  to  be  said,  too. 
If  there  is  what  you  call  weakness,  wouldn't  the  army  be  good 
for  it?  It  makes  men,  some  times,  doesn't  it?" 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 273 

For  a  sickening  moment,  Audrey  thought  of  Chris.  War  had 
made  Chris,  but  it  had  killed  him,  too. 

"Have  you  thought  of  one  thing?"  she  asked.  "That  in 
trying  to  make  this  young  man,  whoever  it  is,  he  may  be  hurt, 
or  even  worse?" 

"He  would  have  to  take  his  chance,  like  the  rest." 

She  went  a  little  pale,  however.  Audrey  impulsively  put  an 
arm  around  her. 

"And  this — woman  is  the  little  long-legged  girl  who  used 
to  give  signals  to  her  father  when  the  sermon  was  too  long! 
Now — what  can  I  do  about  this  youth  who  can't  make  up  L^s 
own  mind?" 

"You  can  talk  to  his  mother." 

"If  I  know  his  mother — and  I  think  I  do — it  won't  do  the 
slightest  good." 

"Then  his  father.     You  are  great  friends,  aren't  you?" 

Even  this  indirect  mention  of  Clayton  made  Audrey's  hands 
tremble.  She  put  them  behind  her. 

"We  are  very  good  friends,"  she  said.  But  Delight  was 
too  engrossed  to  notice  the  deeper  note  in  her  voice.  "I'll 
see  what  I  can  do.  But  don't  count  on  me  too  much.  You 
spoke  of  a  girl.  I  suppose  I  know  who  it  is." 

"Probably.    It  is  Marion  Hayden.    He  is  engaged  to  her." 

And  again  Audrey  marveled  at  her  poise,  for  Delight's  little 
tragedy  was  clear  by  that  time.  Clear,  and  very  sad. 

"I  can't  imagine  his  really  being  in  love  with  her." 

"But  he  must  be.     They  are  engaged." 

Audrey  smiled  at  the  simple  philosophy  of  nineteen,  smiled 
and  was  extremely  touched.  How  brave  the  child  was! 
Audrey's  own  courageous  heart  rather  swelled  in  admiration. 

But  after  Delight  had  gone,  she  felt  depressed  again,  and 
very  tired.  How  badly  these  things  were  handled!  How 
strange  it  was  that  love  so  often  brought  suffering!  Great 
loves  were  almost  always  great  tragedies.  Perhaps  it  was  be 
cause  love  was  never  truly  great  until  the  element  of  sacrifice 
entered  into  it. 


274 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Her  own  high  courage  failed  her  somewhat.  During  these 
recent  days  when,  struggling  against  very  real  stage  fright, 
she  made  her  husky,  wholly  earnest  but  rather  nervous  little 
appeals  to  the  crowds  before  the  enlisting  stations,  she  got 
along  bravel)-  enough  during  the  day.  But  the  night  found 
her  sad,  unutterably  depressed. 

At  these  times  she  was  haunted  by  a  fear  that  persisted 
against  all  her  arguments.  In  Washington  Clayton  had  not 
looked  well.  He  had  been  very  tired  and  white,  and  some 
of  his  natural  buoyancy  seemed  to  have  deserted  him.  He 
needed  caring  for,  she  would  reflect  bitterly.  There  should 
be  some  one  to  look  after  him.  He  was  tired  and  anxious,  but 
it  took  the  eyes  of  love  to  see  it.  Natalie  would  never  notice, 
and  would  consider  it  a  grievance  if  she  did.  The  fiercely 
maternal  tenderness  of  the  childless  woman  for  the  man  she 
loves  kept  her  awake  at  night  staring  into  the  darkness  and 
visualizing  terrible  things.  Clayton  ill,  and  she  unable  to 
go  to  him.  Ill,  and  wanting  her,  and  unable  to  ask  for 
her. 

She  was,  she  knew,  not  quite  normal,  but  the  fear  gripped 
and  held  her.  These  big  strong  men,  no  one  ever  looked 
after  them.  They  spent  their  lives  caring  for  others,  and  were 
never  cared  for. 

There  were  times  when  a  sort  of  exaltation  of  sacrifice  kept 
her  head  high,  when  the  thing  she  was  forced  to  give  up 
seemed  trifling  compared  with  the  men  and  boys  who,  some 
determinedly,  some  sheepishly,  left  the  crowd  around  the  bor 
rowed  car  from  which  she  spoke,  and  went  into  the  re 
cruiting  station.  There  was  sacrifice  and  sacrifice,  and  there 
was  some  comfort  in  the  thought  that  both  she  and  Clayton 
were  putting  the  happiness  of  others  above  their  own. 

They  had  both,  somehow,  somewhere,  missed  the  path.  But 
they  must  never  go  back  and  try  to  find  it. 

Delight's  visit  left  her  thoughtful.  There  must  be  some 
way  to  save  Graham.  She  wondered  how  much  of  Clayton's 
weariness  was  due  to  Graham.  And  she  wondered,  too,  if  he 


DANGEROUS  DAYS _275 

knew  of  the  talk  about  Natalie  and  Rodney  Page.  There  was 
a  great  deal  of  talk.  Somehow  such  talk  cheapened  his  sacri 
fice  and  hers. 

Not  that  she  believed  it,  or  much  of  it.  She  knew  how 
little  such  gossip  actually  meant.  Practically  every  woman  she 
knew,  herself  included,  had  at  one  time  or  another  laid  her 
self  open  to  such  invidious  comment.  They  had  all  been  idle, 
and  they  sought  amusement  in  such  spurious  affairs  as  this, 
harmless  in  the  main,  but  taking  on  the  appearance  of  evil. 
That  was  part  of  the  game,  to  appear  worse  than  one  really 
was.  The  older  the  woman,  the  more  eager  she  was  often 
in  her  clutch  at  the  vanishing  romance  of  youth. 

Only — it  was  part  of  the  game,  too,  to  avoid  scandal.  A 
fierce  pride  for  Clayton's  name  sent  the  color  to  her  face. 

On  the  evening  after  Delight's  visit,  she  had  promised  to 
speak  at  a  recruiting  station  far  down-town  in  a  crowded 
tenement  district,  and  tired  as  she  was,  she  took  a  bus  and 
went  down  at  seven  o'clock.  She  was  uneasy  and  nervous. 
She  had  not  spoken  in  the  evening  before,  and  in  all  her 
sheltered  life  she  had  never  seen  the  milling  of  a  night  crowd 
in  a  slum  district. 

There  was  a  wagon  drawn  up  at  the  curb,  and  an  earnest- 
eyed  young  clergyman  was  speaking.  The  crowd  was  at 
tentive,  mildly  curious.  The  clergyman  was  emphatic  with 
out  being  convincing.  Audrey  watched  the  faces  about  her, 
standing  in  the  crowd  herself,  and  a  sense  of  the  futility  of 
it  all  gripped  her.  All  these  men,  and  only  a  feeble  cheer 
as  a  boy  still  in  his  teens  agreed  to  volunteer.  All  this  ef 
fort  for  such  scant  result,  and  over  on  the  other  side  such 
dire  need!  But  one  thing  cheered  her.  Beside  her,  in  the 
crowd,  a  portly  elderly  Jew  was  standing  wiih  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  and  when  a  man  near  him  made  some  jeering  comment, 
the  Jew  brought  his  hand  down  on  his  shoulder. 

"Be  still  and  listen,"  he  said.  "Or  else  go  away  and  allow 
others  to  listen.  This  is  our  country  which  calls." 


276 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"It's  amusing,  isn't  it?"  Audrey  heard  a  woman's  voice 
near  her,  carefully  inflected,  slightly  affected. 

"It's  rather  stunning,  in  a  way.  It's  decorative;  the  white 
faces,  and  that  chap  in  the  wagon,  and  the  gasoline  torch." 

"I'd  enjoy  it  more  if  I'd  had  my  dinner." 

The  man  laughed. 

"You  are  a  most  brazen  combination  of  the  mundane  and 
the  spiritual,  Natalie.  You  are  all  soul — after  you  are  fed. 
Come  on.  It's  near  here." 

Audrey's  hands  were  very  cold.  By  the  movement  of  the 
crowd  behind  her,  she  knew  that  Natalie  and  Rodney  were 
making  their  escape,  toward  food  and  a  quiet  talk  in  some  ob 
scure  restaurant  in  the  neighborhood.  Fierce  anger  shook  her. 
For  this  she  and  Clayton  were  giving  up  the  only  hope  they 
had  of  happiness — that  Natalie  might  carry  on  a  cheap  and 
stealthy  flirtation. 

She  made  a  magnificent  appeal  that  night,  and  a  very  suc 
cessful  one.  The  lethargic  crowd  waked  up  and  pressed  for 
ward.  There  were  occasional  cheers,  and  now  and  then  the 
greater  tribute  of  convinced  silence.  And  on  a  box  in  the 
wagon  the  young  clergyman  eyed  her  almost  wistfully.  What 
a  woman  she  was !  With  such  a  woman  a  man  could  live  up  to 
the  best  in  him.  Then  he  remembered  his  salary  in  a  mission 
church  of  twelve  hundred  a  year,  and  sighed. 

He  gained  courage,  later  on,  and  asked  Audrey  if  she 
would  have  some  coffee  with  him,  or  something  to  eat.  She 
looked  tired. 

"Tired!"  said  Audrey.  "I  am  only  tired  these  days  when 
I  am  not  working." 

"You  must  not  use  yourself  up.  You  are  too  valuable  to 
the  country." 

She  was  very  grateful.  After  all,  what  else  really  mat 
tered?  In  a  little  glow  she  accepted  his  invitation. 

"Only  coffee,"  she  said.  "I  have  had  dinner.  Is  there  any 
place  near?" 

He  piloted  her  through  the  crowd,  now  rapidly  dispersing. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 277 

Here  and  there  some  man,  often  in  halting  English,  thanked 
her  for  what  she  had  said.  A  woman,  slightly  the  worse  for 
drink,  but  with  friendly,  rather  humorous  eyes,  put  a  hand 
on  her  arm. 

"You're  all  right,  m'dear,"  she  said.  "You're  the  stuff.  Give 
it  to  them.  I  wish  to  God  I  could  talk.  I'd  tell  'em  some 
thing." 

The  clergyman  drew  her  on  hastily. 

In  a  small  Italian  restaurant,  almost  deserted,  they  found 
a  table,  and  the  clergyman  ordered  eggs  and  coffee.  He  was 
a  trifle  uneasy.  In  the  wagon  Audrey's  plain  dark  clothes 
had  deceived  him.  But  the  single  pearl  on  her  finger  was  very 
valuable.  He  fell  to  apologizing  for  the  place. 

"I  often  come  here,"  he  explained.  "The  food  is  good,  if 
you  like  Italian  cooking.  And  it  is  near  my  work.  I " 

But  Audrey  was  not  listening.  At  a  corner,  far  back,  Nat 
alie  and  Rodney  were  sitting,  engrossed  in  each  other.  Natalie's 
back  was  carefully  turned  to  the  room,  but  there  was  no  mis 
taking  her.  Audrey  wanted  madly  to  get  away,  but  the  coffee 
had  come  and  the  young  clergyman  was  talking  gentle  plati 
tudes  in  a  rather  sweet  but  monotonous  voice.  Then  Rodney 
saw  her,  and  bowed. 

Almost  immediately  afterward  she  heard  the  soft  rustle 
that  was  Natalie,  and  found  them  both  beside  her. 

"Can  we  run  you  up-town?"  Natalie  asked.  "That  is,  un 
less " 

She  glanced  at  the  clergyman. 

"Thank  you,  no,  Natalie.  I'm  going  to  have  some  supper 
first." 

Natalie  was  uneasy.  Audrey  made  no  move  to  present  the 
clergyman,  whose  name  she  did  not  know.  Rodney  was  look 
ing  slightly  bored. 

"Odd  little  place,  isn't  it?"  Natalie  offered  after  a  second's 
silence. 

"Rather  quaint,  I  think." 


278 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Natalie  made  a  desperate  effort  to  smooth  over  an  awkward 
situation.  She  turned  to  the  clergyman. 

"We  heard  you  speaking.    It  was  quite  thrilling." 

He  smiled  a  little. 

"Not  so  thrilling  as  this  lady.  She  carried  the  crowd,  ab 
solutely/' 

Natalie  turned  and  stared  at  Audrey,  who  was  flushed  with 
annoyance. 

"You !"  she  said.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  been  talk 
ing  from  that  wagon?" 

"'I  haven't  said  it.    But  I  have." 

"For  heaven's  sake !"  Then  she  laughed  and  glanced  at 
Rodney.  "Well,  if  you  won't  tell  on  me,  I'll  not  tell  on  you." 
And  then  seeing  Audrey  straighten,  "I  don't  mean  that,  of 
course.  Clay's  at  a  meeting  to-night,  so  I  am  having  a  holi 
day." 

She  moved  on,  always  with  the  soft  rustle,  leaving  behind 
her  a  delicate  whiff  of  violets  and  a  wide-eyed  clergyman,  who 
stared  after  her  admiringly. 

"What  a  beautiful  woman!"  he  said.  There  was  a  faint 
regret  in  his  voice  that  Audrey  had  not  presented  him,  and 
he  did  not  see  that  her  coffee-cup  trembled  as  she  lifted  it  to 
her  lips. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  Natalie  called  her  on  the 
'phone.  Natalie's  morning  voice  was  always  languid,  but 
there  was  a  trace  of  pleading  in  it  now. 

"It's  a  lovely  day,"  she  said.    "What  are  you  doing?" 

"I've  been  darning." 

"You!    Darning!" 

"I  rather  like  it." 

"Heavens,  how  you've  changed !  I  suppose  you  wouldn't 
do  anything  so  frivolous  as  to  go  out  with  me  to  the  new 
house." 

Audrey  hesitated.  Evidently  Natalie  wanted  to  talk,  to  try 
to  justify  herself.  But  the  feeling  that  she  was  the  last  woman 
in  the  world  to  be  Natalie's  father-confessor  was  strong  in 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  279 

her.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  the  question  of  Graham. 
On  that,  before  long,  she  and  Natalie  would  have,  in  one  of 
her  own  occasional  lapses  into  slang,  to  go  to  the  mat. 

"I'll  come,  of  course,  if  that's  an  invitation." 

"I'll  be  around  in  an  hour,  then." 

Natalie  was  unusually  prompt.  She  was  nervous  and  ex 
cited,  and  was  even  more  carefully  dressed  than  usual.  Over 
her  dark  blue  velvet  dress  she  wore  a  loose  motor-coat,  with  a 
great  chinchilla  collar,  but  above  it  Audrey,  who  would  have 
given  a  great  deal  to  be  able  to  hate  her,  found  her  rather 
pathetic,  a  little  droop  to  her  mouth,  dark  circles  which  no 
veil  could  hide  under  her  eyes. 

:  The  car  was  in  its  customary  resplendent  condition.  There 
were  orchids  in  the  flower-holder,  and  the  footman,  light  rug 
over  his  arm,  stood  rigidly  waiting  at  the  door. 

"What  a  tone  you  and  your  outfit  do  give  my  little  street," 
Audrey  said,  as  they  started.  "We  have  more  milk-wagons 
than  limousines,  you  know." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  bear  it." 

Audrey  smiled.  "It's  really  rather  nice,"  she  said.  "For 
one  thing,  I  haven't  any  bills.  I  never  lived  on  a  cash  basis 
before.  It's  a  sort  of  emancipation." 

"Oh,  bills !"  said  Natalie,  and  waved  her  hands  despairingly. 
"If  you  could  see  my  desk!  And  the  way  I  watch  the  mail 
so  Clay  won't  see  them  first.  They  really  ought  to  send  bills 
in  blank  envelopes." 

"But  you  have  to  give  them  to  him  eventually,  don't  you?" 

"I  can  choose  my  moment.  And  it  is  never  in  the  morn 
ing.  He's  rather  awful  in  the  morning." 

"Awful?" 

"Oh,  not  ugly.  Just  quiet.  I  hate  a  man  who  doesn't  talk 
in  the  mornings.  But  then,  for  months,  he  hasn't  really  talked 
at  all.  That's  why" — she  was  rather  breathless — "that's  why 
I  went  out  with  Rodney  last  night." 

"I  don't  think  Clayton  would  mind,  if  you  told  him  first. 


a8o DANGEROUS  DAYS 

It's  your  own  affair,  of  course,  but  it  doesn't  seem  quite 
fair  to  him." 

"Oh,  of  course  you'd  side  with  him.  Women  always  side 
with  the  husband." 

"I  don't  'side'  with  any  one,"  Audrey  protested.  "But  I  am 
sure,  if  he  realized  that  you  are  lonely " 

Suddenly  she  realized  that  Natalie  was  crying.  Not  much, 
but  enough  to  force  her  to  dab  her  eyes  carefully  through 
her  veil. 

"I'm  awfully  unhappy,  Audrey,"  she  said.  "Everything's 
wrong,  and  I  don't  know  why.  What  have  I  done  ?  I  try  and 
try  and  things  just  get  worse." 

Audrey  was  very  uncomfortable.  She  had  a  guilty  feeling 
that  the  whole  situation,  with  Natalie  pouring  out  her  woes 
beside  her,  was  indelicate,  unbearable. 

"But  if  Clay "  she  began. 

"Clay !  He's  absolutely  ungrateful.  He  takes  me  for 
granted,  and  the  house  for  granted.  Everything.  And  if  he 
knows  I  want  a  thing,  he  disapproves  at  once.  I  think  some 
times  he  takes  a  vicious  pleasure  in  thwarting  me." 

But  as  she  did  not  go  on,  Audrey  said  nothing.  Natalie  had 
raised  her  veil,  and  from  a  gold  vanity-case  was  repairing 
the  damages  around  her  eyes. 

"Why  don't  you  find  something  to  do,  something  to  inter 
est  you  ?"  Audrey  suggested  finally. 

But  Natalie  poured  out  a  list  of  duties  that  lasted  for  the 
last  three  miles  of  the  trip,  ending  with  the  new  house. 

"Even  that  has  ceased  to  be  a  satisfaction,"  she  finished. 
"Clayton  wants  to  stop  work  on  it,  and  cut  down  all  the  esti 
mates.  It's  too  awful.  First  he  told  me  to  get  anything  I 
liked,  and  now  he  says  to  cut  down  to  nothing.  I  could  just 
shriek  about  it." 

"Perhaps  that's  because  we  are  in  the  war,  now." 

"War  or  no  war,  we  have  to  live,  don't  we  ?  And  he  thinks 
I  ought  to  do  without  the  extra  man  for  the  car,  and  the  sec- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  281 

ond  man  in  the  house,  and  heaven  alone  knows  what.  I'm  at 
the  end  of  my  patience." 

Audrey  made  a  resolution.  After  all,  what  mattered  was 
that  things  should  be  more  tolerable  for  Clayton.  She  turned 
to  Natalie. 

"Why  don't  you  try  to  do  what  he  wants,  Natalie?  He 
must  have  a  reason  for  asking  you.  And  it  would  please 
him  a  lot." 

"If  I  start  making  concession,  I  can  just  keep  it  up.  He's 
like  that." 

"He's  so  awfully  fine,  Natalie.  He's — well,  he's  rather  big. 
And  sometimes  I  think,  if  you  just  tried,  he  wouldn't  be  so 
hard  to  please.  He  probably  wants  peace  and  happiness " 

"Happiness !"  Natalie's  voice  was  high.  "That  sounds  like 
Clay.  Happiness !  Don't  you  suppose  I  want  to  be  happy  ?" 

"Not  enough  to  work  for  it,"  said  Audrey,  evenly. 

Natalie  turned  and  stared  at  her. 

"I  believe  you're  half  in  love  with  Clay  yourself !" 

"Perhaps  I  am." 

But  she  smiled  frankly  into  Natalie's  eyes. 

"I  know  if  I  were  married  to  him,  I'd  try  to  do  what  he 
wanted." 

"You'd  try  it  for  a  year.  Then  you'd  give  it  up.  It's  one 
thing  to  admire  a  man.  It's  quite  different  being  married  to 
him,  and  having  to  put  up  with  all  sorts  of  things " 

Her  voice  trailed  off  before  the  dark  vision  of  her  domestic 
unhappiness.  And  again,  as  with  Graham  and  his  father,  it 
was  what  she  did  not  say  that  counted.  Audrey  came  close  to 
hating  her  just  then. 

So  far  the  conversation  had  not  touched  on  Graham,  and 
now  they  were  turning  in  the  new  drive.  Already  the  lawns 
were  showing  green,  and  extensive  plantings  of  shrubbery 
were  putting  out  their  pale  new  buds.  Audrey,  bending  for 
ward  in  the  car,  found  it  very  lovely,  and  because  it  belonged 
to  Clay,  was  to  be  his  home,  it  thrilled  her,  just  as  the  tow- 


282 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

ering  furnaces  of  his  mill  thrilled  her,  the  lines  of  men.  leaving 
at  nightfall.  It  was  his,  therefore  it  was  significant. 

The  house  amazed  her.  Even  Natalie's  enthusiasm  had  not 
promised  anything  so  stately  or  so  vast.  Moving  behind  her 
through  great  empty  rooms,  to  the  sound  of  incessant  ham 
mering,  over  which  Natalie's  voice  was  raised  shrilly,  she 
was  forced  to  confess  that,  between  them,  Natalie  and  Rod 
ney  had  made  a  lovely  thing.  She  felt  no  jealousy  when  she 
contrasted  it  with  her  own  small  apartment.  She  even  felt 
that  it  was  the  sort  of  house  Clayton  should  have. 

For,  although  it  had  been  designed  as  a  setting  for  Natalie, 
although  every  color-scheme,  almost  every  chair,  had  been 
bought  with  a  view  to  forming  a  background  for  her,  it  was 
too  big,  too  massive.  It  dwarfed  her.  Out-of-doors,  Audrey 
lost  that  feeling.  In  the  formal  garden  Natalie  was  charmingly 
framed.  It  was  like  her,  beautifully  exact,  carefully  planned, 
already  with  its  spring  borders  faintly  glowing. 

Natalie  cheered  in  her  approval. 

"You're  so  comforting,"  she  said.  "Clay  thinks  it  isn't 
homelike.  He  says  it's  a  show  place — which  it  ought  to  be. 
It  cost  enough — and  he  hates  show  places.  He  really  ought 
to  have  a  cottage.  Now  let's  see  the  swimming-pool." 

But  at  the  pool  she  lost  her  gayety.  The  cement  basin,  still 
empty,  gleamed  white  in  the  sun,  and  Natalie,  suddenly  brood 
ing,  stood  beside  it  staring  absently  into  it. 

"It  was  for  Graham,"  she  said  at  last.  "We  were  going  to 
have  week-end  parties,  and  all  sorts  of  young  people.  But 
now!" 

"What  about  now?" 

Natalie  raised  tragic  eyes  to  hers. 

"He's  probably  going  into  the  army.  He'd  have  never 
thought  of  it,  but  Clayton  shows  in  every  possible  way  that 
he  thinks  he  ought  to  go.  What  is  the  boy  to  do?  His  father 
driving  him  to  what  may  be  his  death !" 

"I  don't  think  he'd  do  that,  Natalie." 

Natalie  laughed,  her  little  mirthless  laugh. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 283 

''Much  you  know  what  his  father  would  do !  I'll  tell  you 
this,  Audrey.  If  Graham  goes,  and  anything — happens  to 
him,  I'll  never  forgive  Clay.  Never." 

Audrey  had  not  suspected  such  depths  of  feeling  as  Nat 
alie's  eyes  showed  under  their  penciled  brows.  They  were 
desperate,  vindictive  eyes.  Suddenly  Natalie  was  pleading 
with  her. 

"You'll  talk  to  Clay,  won't  you?  He'll  listen  to  you.  He 
has  a  lot  of  respect  for  your  opinion.  I  want  you  to  go  to 
him,  Audrey.  I  brought  you  here  to  ask  you.  I'm  almost 
out  of  my  mind.  Why  do  you  suppose  I  play  around  with 
Rodney?  I've  got  to  forget,  that's  all.  And  I've  tried  every 
thing  I  know,  and  failed.  He'll  go,  and  I'll  lose  him,  and 
if  I  do  it  will  kill  me." 

"It  doesn't  follow  that  because  he  goes  he  won't  come 
back." 

"He'll  be  in  danger.  I  shall  be  worrying  about  him  every 
moment."  She  threw  out  her  hands  in  what  was  as  unre 
strained  a  gesture  as  she  ever  made.  "Look  at  me!"  she 
cried.  "I'm  getting  old  under  it.  I  have  lines  about  my  eyes 
already.  I  hate  to  look  at  myself  in  the  morning.  And  I'm 
not  old.  I  ought  to  be  at  my  best  now." 

Natalie's  anxiety  was  for  Graham,  but  her  pity  was  for 
herself.  Audrey's  heart  hardened. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "I  can't  go  to  Clay.  I  feel  as  I  think 
he  does.  If  Graham  wants  to  go,  he  should  be  free  to  do  it. 
You're  only  hurting  him,  and  your  influence  on  him,  by  hold 
ing  him  back." 

"You've  never  had  a  child." 

"If  I  had,  and  he  wanted  to  go,  I  should  be  terrified,  but  I 
should  be  proud." 

"You  and  Clay!  You  even  talk  alike.  It's  all  a  pose,  this 
exalted  attitude.  Even  this  war  is  a  pose.  It's  a  national  at 
titude  we've  struck,  a  great  nation  going  to  rescue  humanity, 
while  the  rest  of  the  world  looks  on  and  applauds !  It  makes 
me  ill." 


284  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

She  turned  and  went  back  to  the  house,  leaving  Audrey  by 
the  swimming-pool.  She  sat  on  the  edge  of  one  of  the  stone 
benches,  feeling  utterly  dreary  and  sad.  To  make  a  sacrifice 
for  a  worthy  object  was  one  thing.  To  throw  away  a  life's 
happiness  for  a  spoiled,  petulant  woman  was  another.  It  was 
too  high  a  price  to  pay.  Mingled  with  her  depression  was  pity 
for  Clayton;  for  all  the  years  that  he  had  lived  with  this 
woman,  and  pride  in  him,  that  he  had  never  betrayed  his 
disillusion. 

After  a  time  she  saw  the  car  waiting,  and  she  went  slowly 
back  to  the  house.  Natalie  was  already  inside,  and  she  made 
no  apologies  whatever.  The  drive  back  was  difficult.  Natalie 
openly  sulked,  replied  in  monosyllables,  made  no  effort  her 
self  until  they  were  in  the  city  again.  Then  she  said,  "I'm 
sorry  I  asked  you  to  speak  to  Clay.  Of  course  you  needn't 
do  it." 

"Not  if  it  is  to  do  what  you  said.  But  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
misunderstand  me,  Natalie.  I'm  awfully  sorry.  We  just 
think  differently." 

"We  certainly  do,"  said  Natalie  briefly.  And  that  was  her 
good-by. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

WHEN  Clayton  had  returned  from  Washington,  one  o£ 
the  first  problems  put  up  to  him  had  been  Herman 
Klein's  application  to  be  taken  on  again.    He  found  Hutchin- 
son  in  favor  of  it. 

"He  doesn't  say  much,"  he  said.  "Never  did.  But  I  gather 
things  are  changed,  now  we  are  in  the  war  ourselves." 

"I  suppose  we  need  him." 

"You  bet  we  need  him." 

For  the  problem  of  skilled  labor  was  already  a  grave  one. 

Clayton  was  doubtful.  If  he  could  have  conferred  with 
Dunbar  he  would  have  felt  more  comfortable,  but  Dunbar 
was  away  on  some  mysterious  errand  connected  with  the  Mili 
tary  Intelligence  Department.  He  sat  considering,  tapping  on 
his  desk  with  the  handle  of  his  pen.  Of  course  things  were 
different  now.  A  good  many  Germans  whose  sympathies  had, 
as  between  the  Fatherland  and  the  Allies,  been  with  Germany, 
were  now  driven  to  a  decision  between  the  land  they  had  left 
and  the  land  they  had  adopted.  And  behind  Herman  there 
were  thirty  years  of  good  record. 

"Where  is  the  daughter?" 

"I  don't  know.  She  left  some  weeks  ago.  It's  talk  around 
the  plant  that  he  beat  her  up,  and  she  got  out.  Those  Germans 
don't  know  the  first  thing  about  how  to  treat  women." 

"Then  she  is  not  in  Weaver's  office?" 

"No." 

There  was  more  talk  in  the  offices  than  Hutchinson  re 
peated.  Graham's  fondness  for  Anna,  her  slavish  devotion 
to  him,  had  been  pretty  well  recognized.  He  wondered  if 
Clayton  knew  anything  about  it,  or  the  further  gossip  that 
Graham  knew  where  Anna  Klein  had  been  hiding. 

285 


286  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"What  about  Rudolph  Klein?  He  was  a  nephew,  wasn't 
he?" 

"Fired,"  said  Hutchinson  laconically.  "Got  to  spreading 
the  brotherhood  of  the  world  idea — sweat  brothers,  he  calls 
them.  But  he  was  mighty  careful  never  to  get  in  a  perspira 
tion  himself." 

"We  might  try  Herman  again.  But  I'd  keep  an  eye  on 
him." 

So  Herman  was  taken  on  at  the  new  munition  plant.  He 
was  a  citizen,  he  owned  property,  he  had  a  record  of  long 
service  behind  him.  And,  at  first,  he  was  minded  to  preserve 
that  record  intact.  While  he  had  by  now  added  to  his  rage 
against  the  Fatherland's  enemies  a,  vast  and  sullen  fury 
against  invested  capital,  his  German  caution  still  remained. 

He  would  sit  through  fiery  denunciations  of  wealth,  nod 
ding  his  head  slowly  in  agreement.  He  was  perfectly  aware 
that  in  Gus's  little  back  room  dark  plots  were  hatched.  In 
deed,  on  a  certain  April  night  Rudolph  had  come  up  and  called 
him  onto  the  porch. 

"In  about  fifteen  minutes,"  he  said,  consulting  his  watch  in 
the  doorway,  "I'm  going  to  show  you  something  pretty." 

And  in  fifteen  minutes  to  the  dot  the  great  railroad  ware 
houses  near  the  city  wharf  had  burst  into  flames.  Herman 
had  watched  without  comment,  while  Rudolph  talked  in 
cessantly,  boasting  of  his  share  in  the  enterprise. 

"About  a  million  dollars'  worth  of  fireworks  there,"  he 
said,  as  the  glare  dyed  their  faces  red.  "All  stuff  for  the 
Allies."  And  he  boasted,  "When  the  cat  sits  on  the  pick- 
handle,  brass  buttons  must  go." 

By  that  time  Herman  knew  that  the  "cat"  meant  sabotage. 
He  had  nodded  slowly. 

"But  it  is  dangerous,"  was  his  later  comment.  "Sometimes 
they  will  learn,  and  then " 

His  caution  had  exasperated  Rudolph  almost  to  frenzy.  And 
as  time  went  on,  and  one  man  after  another  of  the  organiza 
tion  was  ferreted  out  at  the  new  plant  and  dismissed,  the  sole 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 287 

remaining  hope  of  the  organization  was  Herman.  With  his  re 
instatement  their  hopes  had  risen  again,  but  to  every  sugges 
tion  so  far  he  had  been  deaf.  He  would  listen  approvingly, 
but  at  the  end,  when  he  found  the  talk  veering  his  way,  and 
a  circle  of  intent  faces  watching  him,  he  would  say: 

"It  is  too  dangerous.  And  it  is  a  young  man's  work.  I 
am  not  young." 

Then  he  would  pay  his  score,  but  never  by  any  chance  Ru 
dolph's  or  the  others,  and  go  home  to  his  empty  house.  But 
recently  the  plant  had  gone  on  double  turn,  and  Herman  was 
soon  to  go  on  at  night.  Here  was  the  gang's  opportunity. 
Everything  was  ready  but  Herman  himself.  He  continued 
interested,  but  impersonal.  For  the  sake  of  the  Fatherland 
he  was  willing  to  have  the  plant  go,  and  to  lose  his  work. 
He  was  not  at  all  daunted  by  the  thought  of  the  deaths  that 
would  follow.  That  wTas  war.  Anything  that  killed  and  de 
stroyed  was  fair  in  war.  But  he  did  not  care  to  place  him 
self  in  danger.  Let  those  young  hot-heads  do  the  work. 

Rudolph,  watching  him,  bided  his  time.  The  ground  was 
plowed  and  harrowed,  ready  for  the  seed,  and  Rudolph  had 
only  to  find  the  seed. 

The  night  he  had  carried  Anna  into  the  cottage  on  the 
hill,  he  had  found  it. 

Herman  had  not  beaten  Anna.  Rudolph  had  carried  her 
up  to  her  bed,  and  Herman,  following  slowly,  strap  in  hand, 
had  been  confronted  by  the  younger  man  in  the  doorway  of 
the  room  where  Anna  lay,  conscious  but  unmoving,  on  the 
bed. 

"You  can  use  that  thing  later,"  Rudolph  said.  "She's  sick 
now.  Better  let  her  alone." 

"I  will  teach  her  to  run  away,"  Herman  muttered  thickly. 
"She  left  me,  her  father,  and  threw  away  a  good  job — I " 

"You  come  down-stairs.     I've  something  to  say  to  you." 

And,  after  a  time,  Herman  had  followed  him  down,  but  he 
still  clung  doggedly  to  the  strap. 

Rudolph  led  the  way  outside,  and  here  in  the  darkness  he 


288 DANGEROUS  DAYS      

told  Anna's  story,  twisted  and  distorted  through  his  own 
warped  mind,  but  convincing  and  partially  true.  Herman's 
silence  began  to  alarm  him,  however,  and  when  at  last  he  rose 
and  made  for  the  door,  Rudolph  was  before  him. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

Herman  said  nothing,  but  he  raised  the  strap  and  held  it 
menacingly. 

"Get  out  of  my  way." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  Rudolph  entreated.  "You  can  beat  her 
to  death,  and  what  do  you  get  out  of  it?  She'll  run  away  again 
if  you  touch  her.  Put  that  strap  down.  I'm  not  afraid  of 
you." 

Their  voices,  raised  and  angry,  penetrated  through  Anna's 
haze  of  fright  and  faintness.  She  sat  up  in  the  bed,  ready  to 
spring  to  the  window  if  she  heard  steps  on  the  stairs.  When 
none  came,  but  the  voices,  lowered  now,  went  on  endlessly 
bek>w,  she  slipped  out  of  her  bed  and  crept  to  the  doorway. 

Sounds  traveled  clearly  up  the  narrow  enclosed  stairway. 
She  stood  there,  swaying  slightly,  until  at  last  her  legs  would 
no  longer  support  her.  She  crouched  on  the  floor,  a  hand 
clutching  her  throat,  lest  she  scream.  And  listened. 

She  did  not  sleep  at  all.  The  night  had  been  too  full  of 
horrors.  And  she  was  too  ill  to  attempt  a  second  flight.  Be 
sides,  where  could  she  go?  Katie  was  not  there.  She  could 
see  her  empty  little  room  across,  with  its  cot  bed  and  tawdry 
dresser.  Before,  too,  she  had  had  Graham's  orotection  to 
count  on.  Now  she  had  nothing. 

And  the  voices  went  on. 

When  she  went  back  to  bed  it  was  almost  dawn.  She  heard 
Herman  come  up,  heard  the  heavy  thump  of  his  shoes  on  the 
floor,  and  the  creak  immediately  following  that  showed  he 
had  lain  down  without  undressing.  By  the  absence  of  his 
resonant  snoring  she  knew  he  was  not  sleeping,  either.  She 
pictured  him  lying  there,  his  eyes  on  the  door,  in  almost  un 
winking  espionage. 

At  half  past  six  she  got  up  and  went  down-stairs.     Almost 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  289 

immediately  she  heard  his  stockinged  feet  behind  her.  She 
turned  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Going  to  make  myself  some  coffee." 

He  came  down,  and  sat  down  in  the  sitting-room.  From 
where  he  sat  he  could  survey  the  kitchen,  and  she  knew  his 
eyes  were  on  her.  His  very  quiet  terrified  her,  but  although 
the  strap  lay  on  the  table  he  made  no  move  toward  it.  She 
built  a  fire  and  put  on  the  kettle,  and  after  a  time  she  brought 
him  some  coffee  and  some  bread.  He  took  it  without  a  word. 

Sick  as  she  was,  she  fell  to  cleaning  up  the  dirty  kitchen. 
She  went  outside  for  a  pail,  to  find  him  behind  her  in  the 
doorway.  Then  she  knew  what  he  intended  to  do.  He  was 
afraid,  for  some  reason,  to  beat  her  again,  but  he  was  going  to 
watch  her  lest  again  she  make  her  escape.  The  silence,  under 
his  heavy  gaze,  was  intolerable. 

All  day  she  worked,  and  only  once  did  Herman  lose  sight 
of  her.  That  was  when  he  took  a  ladder,  and  outside  the 
house  nailed  all  the  upper  windows  shut.  He  did  it  with  Ger 
man  thoroughness,  hammering  deliberately,  placing  his  nails 
carefully.  After  that  he  went  to  the  corner  grocery,  but 
before  he  went  he  spoke  the  first  words  of  the  day. 

"You  will  go  to  your  room." 

She  went,  and  he  locked  her  in.  She  knew  then  that  she 
was  a  prisoner.  When  he  was  at  the  mill  at  night,  while  he 
slept  during  the  day,  she  was  to  be  locked  up  in  her  stuffy,  air 
less  room.  When  he  was  about  she  would  do  the  house 
work,  always  under  his  silent,  contemptuous  gaze. 

She  made  one  appeal  to  him,  and  only  one,  and  that  was 
to  his  cupidity. 

"I've  been  sick,  but  I'm  able  to  work  now,  father." 

He  paid  no  attention  to  her. 

"If  you  lock  me  up  and  don't  let  me  work,"  she  persisted, 
"you'll  only  be  cutting  off  your  nose  to  spite  your  face.  I 
make  good  money,  and  you  know  it." 

She  thought  he  was  going  to  speak  then,  but  he  did  not    She. 


290 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

put  his  food  on  the  table  and  he  ate  gluttonously,  as  he  always 
did.  She  did  not  sit  down.  She  drank  a  little  coffee,  standing 
at  the  stove,  and  watched  the  back  of  his  head  with  hate  in 
her  eyes.  He  could  eat  like  that,  when  he  stood  committed 
to  a  terrible  thing! 

It  was  not  until  late  in  the  day  that  it  began  to  dawn  on 
her  how  she  was  responsible.  She  was  getting  stronger  then, 
and  more  able  to  think.  She  followed  as  best  she  could  the 
events  of  the  last  months,  and  she  saw  that,  as  surely  as 
though  a  malevolent  power  had  arranged  it,  the  thing  was  the 
result  of  her  infatuation  for  Graham. 

She  was  in  despair,  and  she  began  to  plan  how  to  get  word 
to  Graham  of  what  was  impending.  She  scrawled  a  note  to 
Graham,  telling  him  where  she  was  and  to  try  to  get  in  touch 
with  her  somehow.  If  he  would  come  around  four  o'clock 
Herman  was  generally  up  and  off  to  the  grocer's,  or  to  Gus's 
saloon  for  his  afternoon  beer. 

''I'll  break  a  window  and  talk  to  you,"  she  wrote.  "I'm 
locked  in  when  he's  out.  My  window  is  on  the  north  side. 
Don't  lose  any  time.  There's  something  terrible  going  to 
happen." 

But  several  days  went  by  and  the  postman  did  not  appear. 
Herman  had  put  a  padlock  on  the  outside  of  her  bedroom  door, 
and  her  hope  of  finding  a  second  key  to  fit  the  door-lock  died 
then. 

It  had  become  a  silent,  bitter  contest  between  the  two  of 
them,  with  two  advantages  in  favor  of  the  girl.  She  was 
more  intelligent  than  Herman,  and  she  knew  the  thing  he 
was  planning  to  do.  She  made  a  careful  survey  of  her  room, 
and  she  saw  that  with  a  screw-driver  she  could  unfasten  the 
hinge  of  her  bedroom  door.  Herman,  however,  always  kept 
his  tools  locked  up.  She  managed,  apparently  by  accident,  to 
break  the  point  off  a  knife,  and  when  she  went  up  to  her 
room  one  afternoon  to  be  locked  in  while  Herman  went  to 
Gus's  saloon,  she  carried  the  knife  in  her  stocking. 

It  was  a  sorry  tool,  however.    Driven  by  her  shaking  hand, 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  291 

there  was  a  time  when  she  almost  despaired.  And  time  was 
flying.  The  postman,  when  he  came,  came  at  five,  and  she 
heard  the  kitchen  clock  strike  five  before  the  first  screw  fell 
out  into  her  hand.  She  got  them  all  out  finally,  and  the  door 
hung  crazily,  held  only  by  the  padlock.  She  ran  to  the  window. 
The  postman  was  coming  along  the  street,  and  she  hammered 
madly  at  the  glass.  When  he  saw  her  he  turned  in  at  the 
gate,  and  she  got  her  letter  and  ran  down  the  stairs. 

She  heard  his  step  on  the  porch  outside,  and  called  to  him. 

"Is  that  you,  Briggs?" 

The  postman  was  ' 'Briggs"  to  the  hill. 

"Yes." 

"If  I  slide  a  letter  out  under  the  door,  will  you  take  it  to 
the  post-office  for  me?  It's  important." 

"All  right.    Slide." 

She  had  put  it  partially  under  the  door  when  a  doubt  crept 
into  her  mind.  That  was  not  Briggs's  voice.  She  made  a 
frantic  effort  to  draw  the  letter  back,  but  stronger  fingers 
than  hers  had  it  beyond  the  door.  She  clutched,  held  tight. 
Then  she  heard  a  chuckle,  and  found  herself  with  a  corner 
of  the  envelope  in  her  hand. 

There  were  voices  outside,  Briggs's  and  Rudolph's. 

"Guess  that's  for  me." 

"Like  hell  it  is." 

She  ran  madly  up  the  stairs  again,  and  tried  with  shaking 
fingers  to  screw  the  door-hinges  into  place  again.  She  fully 
expected  that  they  would  kill  her.  She  heard  Briggs  go  out, 
and  after  a  time  she  heard  Rudolph  trying  to  kick  in  the  house 
door.  Then,  when  the  last  screw  was  back  in  place,  she  heard 
Herman's  heavy  step  outside,  and  Rudolph's  voice,  high,  furi 
ous,  and  insistent. 

Had  Herman  not  been  obsessed  with  the  thing  he  was  to 
do,  he  might  have  beaten  her  to  death  that  night.  But  he  did 
not.  She  remained  in  her  room,  without  food  or  water.  She 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  kill  herself  with  the  knife  if  they 


292 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

came  up  after  her,  but  the  only  sounds  she  heard  were  of 
high  voices,  growing  lov/er  and  more  sinister. 

After  that,  for  days  she  was  a  prisoner.  Herman  moved 
his  bed  down-stairs  and  slept  in  the  sitting-room,  the  five  or 
six  hours  of  day-light  sleep  which  were  all  he  required.  And 
at  night,  while  he  was  at  the  mill,  Rudolph  sat  and  dozed  and 
kept  watch  below.  Twice  a  day  some  meager  provisions  were 
left  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  her  door  was  unlocked.  She 
would  creep  out  and  get  them,  not  because  she  was  hungry, 
but  because  she  meant  to  keep  up  her  strength.  Let  their 
vigilance  slip  but  once,  and  she  meant  to  be  ready. 

She  learned  to  interpret  every  sound  below.  There  were 
times  when  the  fumes  from  burning  food  came  up  the  stair 
case  and  almost  smothered  her.  And  there  were  times,  she 
fancied,  when  Herman  weakened  and  Rudolph  talked  for 
hours,  inciting  and  inflaming  him  again.  She  gathered,  too, 
that  Gus's  place  was  under  surveillance,  and  more  than  once 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  stealthy  figures  came  in  by  the 
garden  gate  and  conferred  with  Rudolph  down-stairs.  Then, 
one  evening,  in  the  dusk  of  the  May  twilight,  she  saw  three 
of  them  come,  one  rather  tall  and  military  of  figure,  and  one 
of  them  carried,  very  carefully,  a  cheap  suitcase. 

She  knew  what  was  in  that  suitcase. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

ONE  morning,  in  his  mail,  Clayton  Spencer  received  a  clip 
ping.  It  had  been  cut  from  a  so-called  society  journal, 
and  it  was  clamped  to  the  prospectus  of  a  firm  of  private  de 
tectives  who  gave  information  for  divorce  cases  as  their 
specialty. 

First  curiously,  then  with  mounting  anger,  Clayton  read 
that  the  wife  of  a  prominent  munition  manufacturer  was  be 
ing  seen  constantly  in  out  of  the  way  places  with  the  young 
architect  who  was  building  a  palace  for  her  out  of  the 
profiteer's  new  wealth.  "It  is  quite  probable,"  ended  the  no 
tice,  "that  the  episode  will  end  in  an  explosion  louder  than 
the  best  shell  the  husband  in  the  case  ever  turned  out." 

Clayton  did  not  believe  the  thing  for  a  moment.  He  was 
infuriated,  but  mostly  with  the  journal,  and  with  the  insulting 
inference  of  the  prospectus.  He  had  a  momentary  clear  vi 
sion,  however,  of  Natalie,  of  her  idle  days,  of  perhaps  a 
futile  last  clutch  at  youth.  He  had  no  more  doubt  of  her 
essential  integrity  than  of  his  own.  But  he  had  a  very  dis 
tinct  feeling  that  she  had  exposed  his  name  to  cheap  scandal, 
and  that  for  nothing. 

Had  there  been  anything  real  behind  it,  he  might  have  under 
stood.  In  his  new  humility,  in  his  new  knowledge  of  impulses 
stronger  than  any  restraints  of  society,  he  would  quite  cer 
tainly  have  made  every  allowance.  But  for  a  whim,  an  indul 
gence  of  her  incorrigible  vanity!  To  get  along,  to  save  Nat 
alie  herself,  he  was  stifling  the  best  that  was  in  him,  while 
Natalie 

That  was  one  view  of  it.  The  other  was  that  Natalie  was 
as  starved  as  he  was.  If  he  got  nothing  from  her,  he  gave 
her  nothing.  How  was  he  to  blame  her?  She  was  straying 

293 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 


along  dangerous  paths,  but  he  himself  had  stood  at  the  edge 
of  the  precipice,  and  looked  down. 

Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps,  for  once,  Natalie 
was  in  earnest.  Perhaps  Rodney  was,  too.  Perhaps  each  of 
them  had  at  last  found  something  that  loomed  larger  than 
themselves.  In  that  case 

But  everything  he  knew  of  Natalie  contradicted  that.  She 
was  not  a  woman  to  count  anything  well  lost  for  love.  She 
was  playing  with  his  honor,  with  Rodney,  with  her  own 
vanity. 

Going  up-town  that  night  he  pondered  the  question  of  how 
to  take  up  the  matter  with  her.  It  would  be  absurd,  under 
the  circumstances,  to  take  any  virtuous  attitude.  He  was 
still  undetermined  when  he  reached  the  house. 

He  found  Marion  Hayden  there  for  dinner,  and  Graham, 
and  a  spirited  three-corner  discussion  going  on  which  ceased 
when  he  stood  in  the  doorway.  Natalie  looked  irritated,  Gra 
ham  determined,  and  Marion  was  slightly  insolent  and  un 
usually  handsome. 

"Hurry  and  change,  Clay,"  Natalie  said.     "Dinner  is  wait- 

ing." 

As  he  went  away  he  had  again  the  feeling  of  being  shut 
out  of  something  which  concerned  Graham. 

Dinner  was  difficult.  Natalie  was  obviously  sulking,  and 
Graham  was  rather  taciturn.  It  was  Marion  who  kept  the 
conversation  going,  and  he  surmised  in  her  a  repressed  excite 
ment,  a  certain  triumph. 

At  last  Natalie  roused  herself.  The  meal  was  almost  over, 
and  the  servants  had  withdrawn. 

"I  wish  you  would  talk  sense  to  Graham,  Clay/'  she  said, 
fretfully.  "I  think  he  has  gone  mad." 

"I  don't  call  it  going  mad  to  want  to  enlist,  father." 

"I  do.  With  your  father  needing  you,  and  with  all  the 
men  there  are  who  can  go." 

"I  don't  understand.  If  he  wants  to  enter  the  army,  that's 
up  to  him,  isn't  it  ?" 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  295 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Clayton  found  Natalie's  eyes  on 
him,  uneasy,  resentful. 

"That's  just  it.  I've  promised  mother  not  to,  unless  she 
gives  her  consent.  And  she  won't  give  it." 

"I  certainly  will  not." 

Clayton  saw  her  appealing  glance  at  Marion,  but  that  young 
lady  was  lighting  a  cigaret,  her  eyelids  lowered.  He  felt  as 
though  he  were  watching  a  play,  in  which  he  was  the  audience. 

"It's  rather  a  family  affair,  isn't  it?"  he  asked.  "Sup 
pose  we  wait  until  we  are  alone.  After  all,  there  is  no 
hurry." 

Marion  looked  at  him,  and  he  caught  a  resentment  in  her 
glance.  The  two  glances  struck  fire. 

"Say  something,  Marion,"  Natalie  implored  her. 

"I  don't  think  my  opinion  is  of  any  particular  importance. 
As  Mr.  Spencer  says,  it's  really  a  family  matter." 

Her  insolence  was  gone.  Marion  was  easy.  She  knew 
Natalie's  game ;  it  was  like  her  own.  But  this  big  square- jawed 
man  at  the  head  of  the  table  frightened  her.  And  he  hated  her. 
He  hardly  troubled  to  hide  it,  for  all  his  civility.  Even  that 
civility  was  contemptuous. 

In  the  drawing-room  things  were  little  better.  Natalie  had 
counted  on  Marion's  cooperation,  and  she  had  failed  her.  She 
pleaded  a  headache  and  went  up-stairs,  leaving  Clayton  to  play 
the  host  as  best  he  could. 

Marion  wandered  into  the  music-room,  with  its  bare  pol 
ished  floor,  its  lovely  painted  piano,  and  played  a  little — gay, 
charming  little  things,  clever  and  artful.  Except  when  visitors 
came,  the  piano  was  never  touched,  but  now  and  then  Clayton 
had  visualized  Audrey  there,  singing  in  her  husky  sweet  voice 
her  little  French  songs. 

Graham  moved  restlessly  about  the  room,  and  Clayton  felt 
that  he  had  altered  lately.  He  looked  older,  and  not  happy. 
He  knew  the  boy  wanted  to  talk  about  Natalie's  opposition, 
but  was  hoping  that  he  would  broach  the  subject.  And  Clay 
ton  rather  grimly  refused  to  do  it.  Those  next  weeks  would 


296 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

show  how  much  of  the  man  there  was  in  Graham,  but  the 
struggle  must  be  between  his  mother  and  himself. 

He  paused,  finally. 

Marion  was  singing. 

"Give  me  your  love  for  a  day; 

A  night;  an  hour. 
If  the  wages  of  sin  are  Death 
I'm  willing  to  pay." 

She  sang  it  in  her  clear  passionless  voice.  Brave  words, 
Clayton  thought,  but  there  were  few  who  would  pay  such 
wages.  This  girl  at  the  piano,  what  did  she  know  of  the 
thing  she  sang  about?  What  did  any  of  the  young  know? 
They  always  construed  love  in  terms  of  passion.  But  passion 
was  ephemeral.  Love  lived  on.  Passion  took,  but  love  gave. 

He  roused  himself. 

"Have  you  told  Marion  about  the  new  arrangement?" 

"I  didn't  know  whether  you  cared  to  have  it  told." 

"Don't  you  think  she  ought  to  know?  If  she  intends  to 
enter  the  family,  she  has  a  right  to  know  that  she  is  not 
marrying  into  great  wealth.  I  don't  suggest,"  he  added,  as 
Graham  colored  hotly,  "that  it  will  make  any  difference.  I 
merely  feel  she  ought  to  know  your  circumstances." 

He  was  called  to  the  telephone,  and  when  he  came  back 
he  found  them  in  earnest  conversation.  The  girl  turned 
toward  him  smiling. 

"Graham  has  just  told  me.    You  are  splendid,  Mr.  Spencer." 

And  afterward  Clayton  was  forced  to  admit  an  element  of 
sincerity  in  her  voice.  She  had  had  a  disappointment,  but  she 
was  very  game.  Her  admiration  surprised  him.  He  was 
nearer  to  liking  her  than  he  had  ever  been. 

Even  her  succeeding  words  did  not  quite  kill  his  admira 
tion  for  her. 

"And  I  have  told  Graham  that  he  must  not  let  you  make 
all  the  sacrifices.  Of  course  he  is  going  to  enlist." 

She  had  turned  her  defeat  into  a  triumph  against  Natalie. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 297 

Clayton  knew  then  that  she  would  never  marry  Graham.    As 
she  went  out  he  followed  her  with  a  faint  smile  of  tribute. 

The  smile  died  as  he  turned  to  go  up  the  stairs. 

Natalie  was  in  her  dressing-room.  She  had  not  undressed, 
but  was  standing  by  a  window.  She  made  no  sign  that  she 
heard  him  enter,  and  he  hesitated.  Why  try  to  talk  things 
out  with  her  ?  Why  hurt  her  ?  Why  not  let  things  drift 
along?  There  was  no  hope  of  bettering  them.  One  of  two 
things  he  must  do,  either  tear  open  the  situation  between  them, 
or  ignore  it. 

"Can  I  get  anything  for  your  head,  my  dear?" 

"I  haven't  any  headache." 

"Then  I  think  I'll  go  to  bed.    I  didn't  sleep  much  last  night." 

He  was  going  out  when  she  spoke  again. 

"I  came  up-stairs  because  I  saw  how  things  were  going." 

"Do  you  really  want  to  go  into  that,  to-night?" 

"Why  not  to-night  ?    We'll  have  to  go  into  it  soon  enough." 

Yet  when  she  turned  to  him  he  saw  the  real  distress  in  her 
face,  and  his  anger  died. 

"I  didn't  want  to  hurt  you,  Natalie.  I  honestly  tried.  But 
you  know  how  I  feel  about  that  girl." 

"Even  the  servants  know  it.    It  is  quite  evident." 

"We  parted  quite  amiably." 

"I  dare  say !  You  were  relieved  that  she  was  going.  If  you 
would  only  be  ordinarily  civil  to  her — oh,  don't  you  see?  She 
could  keep  Graham  from  going  into  this  idiotic  war.  You 
can't.  I  can't.  I've  tried  everything  I  know.  And  she  knows 
she  can.  She's — hateful  about  it." 

"And  you  would  marry  him  to  that  sort  of  a  girl?" 

"I'd  keep  him  from  being  blinded,  or  mutilated,  or  being 
killed." 

"You  can  kill  his  soul." 

''His  soul!"  She  burst  into  hysterical  laughter.  "You  to 
talk  about  souls  !  That's — that's  funny." 

"Natalie,  dear."  He  was  very  grave,  very  gentle.  "Has  it 
occurred  to  you  that  we  are  hitting  it  off  rather  badly  lately  ?" 


298 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

'    She  looked  at  him  quickly. 

"How  ?  Because  I  don't  think  as  you  do  ?  We  got  on  well 
enough  before  this  war  came  along." 

"Do  you  think  it  is  only  that?" 

"If  it's  the  house,  just  remember  you  gave  me  carte  blanche 
there." 

He  made  a  little  gesture  of  despair. 

"I  just  thought  perhaps  you  are  not  as  happy  as  you  might 
be." 

"Happiness  again!  Did  you  come  up-stairs  to-night,  with 
this  thing  hanging  over  us,  to  talk  about  happiness?  That's 
funny,  too."  But  her  eyes  were  suddenly  suspicious.  There 
was  something  strange  in  his  voice. 

"Let's  forget  that  for  a  moment.  Graham  will  make  his  own 
decision.  But,  before  we  leave  that,  let  me  tell  you  that 
I  love  him  as  much  as  you  do.  His  going  means  exactly  as 
much.  It's  only " 

"Another  point  we  differ  on,"  she  finished  for  him.  "Go 
on.  You  are  suddenly  concerned  about  my  happiness.  I'm 
touched,  Clay.  You  have  left  me  all  winter  to  go  out  alone, 
or  with  anybody  who  might  be  sorry  enough  for  me  to  pick 
me  up,  and  now — "  Suddenly  her  eyes  sharpened,  and  she 
drew  her  breath  quickly.  "You've  seen  that  scandalous  thing 
in  the  paper!" 

"It  was  sent  to  me." 

"Who  sent  it?" 

"A  firm  of  private  detectives." 

She  was  frightened,  and  the  terror  in  her  face  brought 
him  to  her  quickly. 

"Natalie  1  Don't  look  like  that !  I  don't  believe  it,  of  course. 
It's  stupid.  I  wasn't  going  to  tell  you.  You  don't  think  I 
believe  it,  do  you  ?" 

She  let  him  put  an  arm  around  her  and  hold  her,  as  he 
would  a  scared  child.  There  was  no  love  for  her  in  it,  but 
a  great  pity,  and  acute  remorse  that  he  could  hold  her  so  and 
care  for  her  so  little. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 299 

"Oh,  Clay  !"  she  gasped.    "I've  been  perfectly  sick  about  it !" 

His  conviction  of  his  own  failure  to  her  made  him  very 
tender.  He  talked  to  her,  as  she  stood  with  her  face  buried 
in  the  shoulder  of  his  coat,  of  the  absurdity  of  her  fear,  of 
his  own  understanding,  and  when  she  was  calmer  he  made  a 
futile  effort  to  make  his  position  clear. 

"I  am  not  angry,"  he  said.  "And  I'm  not  judging  you.  in 
any  way.  But  you  know  how  things  are  between  us.  We 
have  been  drifting  apart  for  rather  a  long  time.  It's  not  your 
fault.  Perhaps  it  is  mine.  Probably  it  is.  I  know  I  don't 
make  you  happy.  And  sometimes  I  think  things  have  either 
got  to  be  better  or  worse." 

"If  I'm  willing  to  go  along  as  we  are,  I  think  you  should 
be." 

"Then  let's  try  to  get  a  little  happiness  out  of  it  all,  Natalie." 

"Oh,  happiness!  You  are  always  raving  about  happiness. 
There  isn't  any  such  thing." 

"Peace,  then.     Let's  have  peace,  Natalie." 

She  drew  back,  regarding  him. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  things  having  to  be  better  or 
worse  ?" 

When  he  found  no  immediate  answer,  she  was  uneasy.  The 
prospect  of  any  change  in  their  relationship  frightened  her. 
Like  all  weak  women,  she  was  afraid  of  change.  Her  life 
suited  her.  Even  her  misery  she  loved  and  fed  on.  She  had 
pitied  herself  always.  Not  love,  but  fear  of  change,  lay 
behind  her  shallow,  anxious  eyes.  Yet  he  could  not  hurt  her. 
She  had  been  foolish,  but  she  had  not  been  wicked.  In  his 
new  humility  he  found  her  infinitely  better  than  himself. 

"I  spoke  without  thinking." 

"Then  it  must  have  been  in  your  mind.  Let  me  see  the 
clipping,  Clay.  I've  tried  to  forget  what  it  said." 

She  took  it,  still  pinned  to  the  prospectus,  and  bent  over 
them  both.  When  she  had  examined  them,  she  continued  to 
stand  with  lowered  eyelids,  turning  and  crumpling  them. 
Then  she  looked  up. 


300 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"So  that  is  what  you  meant!  It  was  a — well,  a  sort  of  a 
threat." 

"I  had  no  intention  of  threatening  you,  my  dear.  You 
ought  to  know  me  better.  That  clipping  was  sent  me  at 
tached  to  the  slip.  The  only  reason  I  let  you  see  it  was  be 
cause  I  think  you  ought  to  know  how  the  most  innocent  things 
are  misconstrued." 

"You  couldn't  divorce  me  if  you  wanted  to."  Then  her 
defiance  faded  in  a  weak  terror.  She  began  to  cry,  shame 
less  frightened  tears  that  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  re 
minded  him  that  she  was  the  mother  of  his  child,  that  she 
had  sacrificed  her  life  to  both  of  them,  and  that  now  they 
would  both  leave  her  and  turn  her  adrift.  She  had  served 
her  purpose,  now  let  her  go. 

Utter  hopelessness  kept  him  dumb.  He  knew  of  old  that 
she  would  cry  until  she  was  ready  to  stop,  or  until  she  had 
gained  her  point.  And  he  knew,  too,  that  she  expected  him 
to  put  his  arms  around  her  again,  in  token  of  his  complete  sur 
render.  The  very  fact  hardened  him.  He  did  not  want  to 
put  his  arms  around  her.  He  wanted,  indeed,  to  get  out  into 
the  open  air  and  walk  off  his  exasperation.  The  scent  in  the 
room  stifled  him. 

When  he  made  no  move  toward  her  she  gradually  stopped 
crying,  and  gave  way  to  the  rage  that  was  often  behind  her 
tears. 

"Just  try  to  divorce  me,  and  see!" 

"Good  God,  I  haven't  even  mentioned  divorce.  I  only  said 
we  must  try  to  get  along  better.  To  agree." 

"Which  means,  I  dare  say,  that  I  am  to  agree  with  you !" 

But  she  had  one  weapon  still.  Suddenly  she  smiled  a  little 
wistfully,  and  made  the  apparently  complete  surrender  that 
always  disarmed  him. 

"I'll  be  good  from  now  on,  Clay.  I'll  be  very,  very  good. 
Only — don't  be  always  criticizing  me." 

She  held  up  her  lips,  and  after  a  second's  hesitation  he 
kissed  her.  He  knew  he  was  precisely  where  he  had  been 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 301 

when  he  started,  and  he  had  a  hopeless  sense  of  the  futility 
of  the  effort  he  had  made.  Natalie  had  got  by  with  a  bad 
half-hour,  and  would  proceed  to  forget  it  as  quickly  as  she 
always  forgot  anything  disagreeable.  Still,  she  was  in  a  more 
receptive  mood  than  usual,  and  he  wondered  if  that  would 
not  be  as  good  a  time  as  any  to  speak  about  his  new  plan  as 
to  the  mill.  He  took  an  uneasy  turn  or  two  about  the  room, 
feeling  her  eyes  on  him. 

"There  is  something  else,  Natalie." 

She  had  relaxed  like  a  kitten  in  her  big  chair,  and  was 
lighting  one  of  the  small,  gilt-tipped  cigarets  she  affected. 

"About  Graham?" 

"It  affects  Graham.    It  affects  us  all." 

"Yes?" 

He  hesitated.  To  talk  to  Natalie  about  business  meant  re 
ducing  it  to  its  most  elemental  form. 

"Have  you  ever  thought  that  this  war  of  ours  means  more 
than  merely  raising  armies?" 

"I  haven't  thought  about  this  war  at  all.  It's  too  absurd. 
A  lot  of  politicians "  She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"It  means  a  great  deal  of  money." 

"Well,  the  country  is  rich,  isn't  it  ?" 

"The  country?    That  means  the  people." 

"I  knew  we'd  get  to  money  sooner  or  later,"  she  observed, 
resignedly.  "All  right.  We'll  be  taxed,  so  we'll  cut  down 
on  the  country  house — go  on.  I  can  say  it  before  you  do.  But 
don't  say  we'll  have  to  do  without  the  greenhouses,  because 
we  can't." 

"We  may  have  to  go  without  more  than  greenhouses." 

His  tone  made  her  sit  bolt  upright.  Then  she  laughed  a 
little. 

"Poor  old  Clay,"  she  said,  with  the  caressing  tone  she  used 
when  she  meant  to  make  no  concession.  "I  do  spend  money, 
don't  I?  But  I  do  make  you  comfortable,  you  know.  And 
what  is  what  I  spend,  compared  with  what  you  are  mak 
ing?" 


302  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"It's  just  that.  I  don't  think  I  cari  consistently  go  on  mak 
ing  a  profit  on  this  war.  now  that  we  are  in  it." 

He  explained  then  what  he  meant,  and  watched  her  face 
set  into  the  hard  lines  he  knew  so  well.  But  she  listened  to 
the  end  and  when  he  had  finished  she  said  nothing. 

"Well?"  he  said, 

"I  don't  think  you  have  the  remotest  idea  of  doing  it.  You 
like  to  play  at  the  heroic.  You  can  see  yourself  doing  it,  and 
every  one  pointing  to  you  as  the  man  who  threw  away  a  for 
tune.  But  you  are  humbugging  yourself.  You'll  never  do  it. 
I  give  you  credit  for  too  much  sense." 

He  went  rather  white.  She  knew  the  weakness  in  his 
armor,  his  hatred  of  anything  theatrical,  and  with  unfailing 
accuracy  she  always  pierced  it. 

"Suppose  I  tell  you  I  have  already  offered  the  plant  to 
the  government,  at  a  nominal  profit." 

Suddenly  she  got  up,  and  every  vestige  of  softness  was 
gone. 

"I  don't  think  you  would  be  such  a  fool." 

"I  have  done  it." 

"Then  you  are  insane.  There  is  no  other  possible  explana 
tion." 

She  passed  him,  moving  swiftly,  and  went  into  her  bed 
room.  He  heard  her  lock  the  door  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

AUDREY  had  made  a  resolution,  and  with  characteristic 
energy  had  proceeded  to  carry  it  out.  She  was  no  longer 
needed  at  the  recruiting  stations.  After  a  month's  debate  the 
conscription  law  was  about  to  be  passed,  made  certain  by  the 
frank  statement  of  the  British  Commission  under  Balfour  as 
to  the  urgency  of  the  need  of  a  vast  new  army  in  France. 

For  the  first  time  the  Allies  laid  their  cards  face  up  on  the 
table,  and  America  realized  to  what  she  was  committed.  Al 
most  overnight  a  potential  army  of  hundreds  of  thousands 
was  changing  to  one  of  millions.  The  situation  was  des 
perate.  Germany  had  more  men  than  the  Allies,  and  had  vast 
eastern  resources  to  draw  on  for  still  more.  To  the  Allies 
only  the  untapped  resources  of  America  remained. 

In  private  conference  with  the  President  Mr.  Balfour  had 
urged  haste,  and  yet  more  haste. 

Audrey,  reading  her  newspapers  faithfully,  felt  with  her 
exaltation  a  little  stirring  of  regret.  Her  occupation,  such  as 
it  was,  was  gone.  For  the  thin  stream  of  men  flowing  toward 
the  recruiting  stations  there  was  now  to  be  a  vast  movement 
of  the  young  manhood  of  the  nation.  And  she  could  have 
no  place  in  it. 

Almost  immediately  she  set  to  work  to  find  herself  a  new 
place.  At  first  there  seemed  to  be  none.  She  went  to  a 
hospital,  and  offered  her  strong  body  and  her  two  willing 
hands  for  training. 

"I  could  learn  quickly,"  she  pleaded,  "and  surely  there  will 
not  be  enough  nurses  for  such  an  army  as  we  are  to  have." 

"Our  regular  course  is  three  years." 

"But  a  special  course.  Surely  I  may  have  that.  There  are 
so  many  things  one  won't  need  in  France." 

303 


304 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

The  head  of  the  training  school  smiled  rather  wistfully. 
They  came  to  her  so  often  now,  these  intelligent,  untrained 
women,  all  eagerness  to  help,  to  forget  and  unlive,  if  they 
could,  their  wasted  lives. 

"You  want  to  go  to  France,  of  course?" 

"If  I  can.    I — my  husband  was  killed  over  there." 

But  she  did  not  intend  to  make  capital  of  Chris's  death. 
"Of  course,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  going.  I  simply 
want  to  work." 

"It's  hard  work.     Not  romantic." 

"I  am  not  looking  for  romance." 

In  the  end,  however,  she  had  to  give  it  up.  In  some  hos 
pitals  they  were  already  training  nurses'  helpers,  but  they 
were  to  relieve  trained  women  for  France.  She  went  home 
to  think  it  over.  She  had  felt  that  by  leaving  the  country  she 
would  solve  Clayton's  problem  and  her  own.  To  stay  on, 
seeing  him  now  and  then,  was  torture  for  them  both. 

But  there  was  something  else.  She  had  begun,  that  after 
noon,  to  doubt  whether  she  was  fitted  for  nursing  after  all. 
The  quiet  of  the  hospital,  the  all-pervading  odor  of  drugs,  the 
subdued  voice  and  quiet  eyes  of  the  head  of  the  training 
school,  as  of  one  who.  had  looked  on  life  and  found  it  in 
finitely  sad,  depressed  her.  She  had  walked  home,  impatient 
with  herself,  disappointed  in  her  own  failure.  She  thought 
dismally : 

"I  am  of  no  earthly  use.  I've  played  all  my  life,  and  now 
I'm  paying  for  it.  I  ought  to."  And  she  ran  over  her  pitiful 
accomplishments:  "golf,  bridge,  ride,  shoot,  swim,  sing  (a 
little),  dance,  tennis,  some  French — what  a  sickening  list!" 

She  was  glad  that  day  to  find  Clare  Gould  waiting  for  her. 
As  usual,  the  girl  had  brought  her  tribute,  this  time  some  early 
strawberries.  Audrey  found  her  in  the  pantry  arranging  their 
leaves  in  a  shallow  dish. 

"Clare!"  she  said.    "Aren't  you  working?" 

"I've  gone  on  night-turn  now." 

The  girl's  admiration   salved  her  wounded  pride  in  her- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 305 

self.  Then  she  saw,  on  a  table,  an  envelope  with  her  name 
on  it.  Clare's  eyes  followed  hers. 

"That' s  the  rest  of  the  money,  Mrs.  Valentine." 

She  colored,  but  Audrey  only  smiled  at  her. 

"Fine!"  she  said.    "Are  you  sure  you  can  spare  it?" 

"I  couldn't  rest  until  it  was  all  paid  up.  And  I'm  getting 
along  fine.  I  make  a  lot,  really." 

"Tell  me  about  the  night  work." 

"We've  gone  on  double  turn.  I  rather  like  it  at  night.  It's 
— well,  it's  like  something  on  the  stage.  The  sparks  fly  from 
the  lathes,  and  they  look  like  fireworks.  And  when  they  ham 
mer  on  hot  metal  it's  lovely." 

She  talked  on,  incoherent  but  glowing.  She  liked  her  big 
turret  lathe.  It  gave  her  a  sense  of  power.  She  liked  to  see 
the  rough  metal  growing  smooth  and  shining  like  silver  under 
her  hands.  She  was  naively  pleased  that  she  was  doing  a 
man's  work,  and  doing  it  well. 

Audrey  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  listened.  All  this  that 
Clare  was  talking  about  was  Clayton's  doing.  He  at  least 
had  dreamed  true.  He  was  doing  a  man's  part,  too,  in  the 
war.  Even  this  girl,  whose  hand  Natalie  Spencer  would  not 
have  touched,  this  girl  was  dreaming  true. 

Clare  was  still  talking.  The  draft  would  be  hard  on  the 
plant.  They  were  short-handed  now.  There  was  talk  of  tak 
ing  in  more  girls  to  replace  the  men  who  would  be  called. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  operate  a  lathe,  Clare?" 

"You!  Why,  Mrs.  Valentine,  it's  not  work  for  a  lady! 
Look  at  my  hands." 

But  Audrey  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"I  don't  care  about  my  hands.  The  question  is,  could  I 
do  it?  I  don't  seem  able  to  do  anything  else." 

"Why,  yes."  Clare  was  reluctant.  "I  can,  and  you're  a 
lot  cleverer  than  I  am.  But  it's  hard.  It's  rough,  and  some 
of  the  talk — oh,  I  hope  you  don't  mean  it,  Mrs.  Valentine." 

Audrey,  however,  was  meaning  it.  It  seemed  to  her,  all 
at  once,  the  way  out.  Here  was  work,  needed  work.  Work 


3o6  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

that  she  could  do.  For  the  first  time  in  months  she  blessed 
the  golf  and  riding  that  had  kept  her  fit. 

"Mr.  Spencer  is  a  friend  of  yours.  He'll  never  let  you  do 
it." 

"He  is  not  to  know,  Clare,"  Audrey  said  briskly.  "You 
are  quite  right.  He  would  probably  be  very — mannish  about 
it.  So  we  won't  tell  him.  And  now,  how  shall  I  go  about 
getting  in?  Will  they  teach  me,  or  shall  I  have  to  just  learn? 
And  whatever  shall  I  wear?" 

Clare  explained  while,  for  she  was  determined  not  to  lose 
a  minute,  Audrey  changed  into  her  plainest  clothes.  They 
would  be  in  time,  if  they  hurried,  before  the  employment  de 
partment  closed.  There  were  women  in  charge  there.  They 
card-indexed  you,  and  then  you  were  investigated  by  the 
secret  service  and  if  you  were  all  right,  well,  that  was  all. 

"Mercy !  It's  enough,"  said  Audrey,  impatiently.  "Do  you 
mean  to  say  they'll  come  here?" 

She  glanced  around  her  rooms,  littered  with  photographs 
of  people  well  known  to  the  public  through  the  society  jour 
nals,  with  its  high  bright  silver  vases,  its  odd  gifts  of  porce 
lain,  its  grand  piano  taking  up  more  than  its  share  of  room. 

"If  they  come  here,"  she  deliberated,  "they  won't  take  me, 
Clare.  They'll  be  thinking  I'm  living  on  German  money !" 

So,  in  the  end,  she  did  not  go  to  the  munition  works.  She 
went  room-hunting  instead,  with  Clare  beside  her,  very  un 
comfortable  on  the  street  for  fear  Audrey  would  be  compro 
mised  by  walking  with  her.  And  at  six  o'clock  that  evening 
a  young  woman  with  a  softly  inflected  voice  and  an  air  of 
almost  humorous  enjoyment  of  something  the  landlady  failed 
to  grasp,  was  the  tenant,  for  one  month's  rent  in  advance,  of 
a  room  on  South  Perry  Street. 

Clare  was  almost  in  tears. 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  your  sleeping  in  that  bed,  Mrs. 
Valentine,"  she  protested.  "It  dips  down  so." 

"I  shan't  have  much  time  to  sleep,  anyhow.     And  when  I 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  307 

do  so  I  shall  be  so  tired,  I —  What  was  the  name  I  gave  her, 
Clare?" 

"Thompson.    Mary  Thompson." 

"She  surprised  me,  or  I'd  have  thought  of  a  prettier  one." 

She  was  absurdly  high-spirited,  although  the  next  day's  or 
deal  rather  worried  her  when  she  thought  about  it.  She  had, 
oddly  enough,  no  trepidation  about  the  work  itself.  It  was 
passing  the  detectives  in  the  employment  department  that 
worried  her.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  there  was  no 
ordeal.  Her  card  was  carried  to  the  desk  in  the  corner,  where 
the  two  men  sat  on  whose  decisions  might  so  easily  rest  the 
safety  of  the  entire  plant,  and  they  surveyed  her  carefully. 
Audrey  looked  ahead,  and  waited.  They  would  come  over 
and  question  her,  and  the  whole  fabric  she  had  built  would  be 
destroyed.  But  nothing  happened.  She  was  told  she  would  be 
notified  in  a  day  or  two  if  she  would  be  taken  en,  and  with 
that  she  was  forced  to  be  content. 

She  had  a  bad  moment,  however,  for  Graham  came  through 
the  office  on  his  way  out,  and  stopped  for  a  moment  directly 
in  front  of  her.  Her  heart  almost  stopped  beating,  and  she 
dropped  her  glove  and  stooped  to  pick  it  up.  When  she  sat 
erect  again  he  was  moving  on.  But  even  her  brief  glance  had 
shovved  her  that  the  boy  looked  tired  and  depressed. 

She  went  to  her  rented  room  at  once,  for  she  must  be  pre 
pared  for  inquiries  about  her.  During  the  interval  she  ar 
ranged  for  the  closing  of  her  apartment  and  the  storing  of  her 
furniture.  With  their  going  would  depart  the  last  reminders 
of  the  old  life,  and  she  felt  a  curious  sense  of  relief.  They 
had  little  happiness  to  remind  her  of,  and  much  suffering.  The 
world  had  changed  since  she  had  gathered  them  together,  and 
she  had  changed  with  it.  She  was  older  and  sadder.  But 
she  would  not  have  gone  back.  Not  for  anything  would  she 
have  gone  back. 

She  had  one  thing  to  do,  however,  before  she  disappeared. 
She  had  promised  to  try  to  find  something  for  Delight,  and 
she  did  it  with  her  usual  thoroughness  and  dispatch.  She 


308  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

sent  for  her  that  last  day  in  the  apartment,  when  in  the 
morning  she  had  found  at  the  Perry  Street  room  a  card  telling 
her  to  report  the  following  night.  When  Delight  came  in  she 
found  the  little  apartment  rather  bare  and  rather  dreary,  but 
Audrey  was  cheerful,  almost  gay. 

"Going  away  for  a  little  while,"  she  explained.  "I've 
stored  a  lot  of  stuff.  And  now,  my  dear,  do  you  really  want 
to  work?" 

"I  just  must  do  something." 

"All  right.  That's  settled.  I've  got  the  thing  I  spoke 
about,  in  one  of  the  officers'  training-camps.  But  remember, 
Delight,  this  is  not  going  to  be  a  romantic  adventure.  It's 
to  be  work." 

"I  don't  want  a  romantic  adventure,  Mrs.  Valentine." 

"Poor  little  thing,"  Audrey  reflected  to  herself.  And  aloud : 
"Good!  Of  course  I  know  you're  sincere  about  working.  I — 
I  understand,  awfully  well." 

Delight  was  pleased,  but  Audrey  saw  that  she  was  not 
happy.  Even  when  the  details  had  been  arranged  she  stiF 
sat  in  her  straight  chair  and  made  no  move  to  go.  And  Au 
drey  felt  that  the  next  move  was  up  to  her. 

"What's  the  news  about  Graham  Spencer?"  she  inquired. 
"He'll  be  drafted,  I  suppose." 

"Not  if  they  claim  exemption.  He's  making  shells,  you 
know." 

She  lifted  rather  heavy  eyes  to  Audrey's. 

"His  mother  is  trying  that  now,"  she  said.  "Ever  since 
his  engagement  was  broken " 

"Oh,  it  was  broken,  was  it  ?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  know  why.  But  it's  off.  Anyhow  Mrs, 
Spencer  is  telling  everybody  he  can't  be  spared." 

"And  his  father?" 

"I  don't  know.    He  doesn't  talk  about  it,  I  think." 

"Perhaps  he  wants  him  to  make  his  own  decision." 

Delight  rose  and  drew  down  her  veil  with  hands  that 
Audrey  saw  were  trembling  a  little. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 309 

"How  can  he  make  his  own  decision?"  she  asked.  "He 
may  think  it's  his  own,  but  it's  hers,  Mrs.  Spencer's.  She's 
always  talking,  always.  And  she's  plausible.  She  can  make 
him  think  black  is  white,  if  she  wants  to." 

"Why  don't  you  talk  to  him?" 

"I  ?  He'd  think  I'd  lost  my  mind !  Besides,  that  isn't  it.  If 
you — like  a  man,  you  want  him  to  do  the  right  thing  because 
he  wants  to,  not  because  a  girl  asks  him  to." 

"I  wonder,"  Audrey  said,  slowly,  "if  he's  worth  it,  De 
light?" 

"Worth  what  ?"    She  was  startled. 

"Worth  your — worth  our  worrying  about  him." 

But  she  did  not  need  Delight's  hasty  and  flushed  champion 
ship  of  Graham  to  tell  her  what  she  already  knew. 

After  she  had  gone,  Audrey  sat  alone  in  her  empty  rooms 
and  faced  a  great  temptation.  She  was  taking  herself  out  of 
Clayton's  life.  She  knew  that  she  would  be  as  lost  to  him 
among  the  thousands  of  workers  in  the  munition  plant  as 
she  would  have  been  in  Russia.  According  to  Clare,  he 
rarely  went  into  the  shops  themselves,  and  never  at  night. 

Of  course  "out  of  his  life"  was  a  phrase.  They  would  meet 
again.  But  not  now,  not  until  they  had  had  time  to  become 
resigned  to  what  they  had  already  accepted.  The  war  would 
not  last  forever.  And  then  she  thought  of  their  love,  which 
had  been  born  and  had  grown,  always  with  war  at  its  back 
ground.  They  had  gone  along  well  enough  until  this  winter, 
and  then  everything  had  changed.  Chris,  Natalie,  Clayton, 
herself — none  of  them  were  quite  what  they  had  been.  Was 
that  one  of  the  gains  of  war,  that  sham  fell  away,  and  people 
revealed  either  the  best  or  the  worst  in  them? 

War  destroyed,  but  it  also  revealed. 

The  temptation  was  to  hear  Clayton's  voice  again.  She 
went  to  the  telephone,  and  stood  with  the  instrument  in  her 
hands,  thinking.  Would  it  comfort  him?  Or  v/ould  it  oniy 
bring  her  close  for  a  moment,  to  empb^ize  her  coming  si 
lence  ? 


3_io DANGEROUS  DAYS  

She  put  it  down,  and  turned  away.  When,  some  time  later, 
the  taxicab  carne  to  take  her  to  Perry  Street,  she  was  lying  on 
her  bed  in  the  dusk,  face-down  and  arms  outstretched,  a  lonely 
and  pathetic  figure,  all  her  courage  dead  for  the  moment,  dead 
but  for  the  desire  to  hear  Clayton's  voice  again,  before  the 
silence  closed  down. 

She  got  up  and  pinned  on  her  hat  for  the  last  time,  before 
the  mirror  of  the  little  inlaid  dressing-table.  And  she  smiled 
rather  forlornly  at  her  reflection  in  the  glass. 

"Well,  I've  got  the  present,  anyhow,"  she  considered.  "I'm 
not  going  either  to  wallow  in  the  past  or  peer  into  the  future. 
I'm  going  to  work." 

The  prospect  cheered  her.  After  all,  work  was  the  great 
solution.  It  was  the  great  healer,  too.  That  was  why  men 
bore  their  griefs  better  than  women.  They  could  work. 

She  took  a  final  glance  around  her  stripped  and  cheerless 
rooms.  How  really  little  things  mattered!  All  her  life  she 
had  been  burdened  with  things.  Now  at  last  she  was  free  of 
them. 

The  shabby  room  on  Perry  Street  called  her.  Work  called, 
beckoned  to  her  with  calloused,  useful  hands.  She  closed 
and  locked  the  door  and  went  quietly  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XL 

ONE  day  late  in  May,  Clayton,  walking  up-town  in  lieu  of 
the  golf  he  had  been  forced  to  abandon,  met  Doctor 
Haverford  on  the  street,  and  found  his  way  barred  by  that 
rather  worried-looking  gentleman. 

"I  was  just  going  to  see  you,  Clayton,"  he  said.  "About 
two  things.  I'll  walk  back  a  few  blocks  with  you." 

He  was  excited,  rather  exalted. 

"I'm  going  in,"  he  announced.  "Regimental  chaplain.  I've 
got  a  year's  leave  of  absence.  I'm  rather  vague  about  what  a 
chaplain  does,  but  I  rather  fancy  he  can  be  useful." 

"You'll  get  over,  of  course.  You're  lucky.  And  you'll  find 
plenty  to  do." 

"I've  been  rather  anxious,"  Doctor  Haverford  confided. 
"I've  been  a  clergyman  so  long  that  I  don't  know  just  how 
I'll  measure  up  as  a  man.  You  know  what  I  mean.  I  am 
making  no  reflection  on  the  church.  But  I've  been  sheltered 
and — well,  I've  been  looked  after.  I  don't  think  I  am  physi 
cally  brave.  It  would  be  a  fine  thing,"  he  said  wryly,  "if  the 
chaplain  were  to  turn  and  run  under  fire !" 

"I  shouldn't  worry  about  that." 

"My  salary  is  to  go  on.  But  I  don't  like  that,  either.  If 
I  hadn't  a  family  I  wouldn't  accept  it.  Delight  thinks  I 
shouldn't,  anyhow.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  ought  to  be  no 
half-way  measures  about  our  giving  ourselves.  If  I  had  a  son 
to  give  it  would  be  different." 

Clayton  looked  straight  ahead.  He  knew  that  the  rector 
had,  for  the  moment,  forgotten  that  he  had  a  son  to  give  and 
that  he  had  not  yet  given. 

"Why  don't  you  accept  a  small  allowance?"  he  inquired 
quietly.  "Or,  better  still,  why  don't  you  let  me  know  how 


312 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

much  it  will  take  and  let  me  do  it?  I'd  like  to  feel  that  ! 
was  represented  in  France — by  you,"  he  added. 

And  suddenly  the  rector  remembered.  He  was  most  un^ 
comfortable,  and  very  flushed. 

"Thanks.    I  can't  let  you  do  that,  of  course." 

" Why  not?" 

"Because,  hang  it  all,  Gayton,  I'm  not  a  parasite.  I  took 
the  car,  because  it  enabled  me  to  do  my  parish  work  better. 
But  I'm  not  going  to  run  off  to  war  and  let  you  keep  my 
family." 

Clayton  glanced  at  him,  at  his  fine  erect  old  figure,  his 
warmly  flushed  face.  War  did  strange  things.  There  was  a 
new  light  in  the  rector's  once  worldly  if  kindly  eyes.  He  had 
the  strained  look  of  a  man  who  sees  great  things,  as  yet  far 
away,  and  who  would  hasten  toward  them.  Insensibly  he 
quickened  his  pace. 

"But  I  can't  go  myself,  so  why  can't  I  send  a  proxy?" 
Clayton  asked,  smiling.  "I've  an  idea  I'd  be  well  represented." 

"That's  a  fine  v/ay  to  look  at  it,  but  I  can't  do  it.  I've  saved 
something,  not  much,  but  it  will  do  for  a  year  or  two.  I'm 
glad  you  made  the  offer,  though.  It  was  like  you,  and — it 
showed  me  the  way.  I  can't  let  any  man,  or  any  group  of 
men,  finance  my  going." 

And  he  stuck  te  it.  Clayton,  having  in  mind  those  careful 
canvasses  of  the  congregation  of  Saint  Luke's  which  had 
every  few  years  resulted  in  raising  the  rector's  salary,  was 
surprised  and  touched.  After  all,  war  was  like  any  other 
grief.  It  brought  out  the  best  or  the  worst  in  us.  It  roused 
or  it  crushed  us. 

The  rector  had  been  thinking. 

"I'm  a  very  fortunate  man,"  he  said,  suddenly.  "They're 
standing  squarely  behind  me,  at  home.  It's  the  women  be 
hind  the  army  that  will  make  it  count,  Clayton." 

Clayton  said  nothing. 

"Which  reminds  me,"  went  on  the  rector,  "that  I  find  Mrs. 
Valentine  has  gone  away.  I  called  on  her  to-day,  and  she  has 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  313 

given  up  her  apartment.  Do  you  happen  to  know  where  she 
is?  She  has  left  no  address." 

"Gone  away  ?"  Clayton  repeated.  "Why,  no.  I  hadn't  heard 
of  it." 

There  in  the  busy  street  he  felt  a  strange  sense  of  loneli 
ness.  Always,  although  he  did  not  see  her,  he  felt  her  pres 
ence.  She  walked  the  same  streets.  For  the  calling,  if  his 
extremity  became  too  great,  he  could  hear  her  voice  over 
the  telephone.  There  was  always  the  hope,  too,  of  meeting 
her.  Not  by  design.  She  had  forbidden  that.  But  some 
times  perhaps  God  would  be  good  to  them  both,  if  they  earned 
it,  and  they  could  touch  hands  for  a  moment. 

But — gone ! 

"You  are  certain  she  left  no  address  ?" 

"Quite  certain.     She  has  stored  her  furniture,  I  believe." 

There  was  a  sense  of  hurt,  then,  too.  She  had  made  this 
decision  without  telling  him.  It  seemed  incredible.  A  dozen 
decisions  a  day  he  made,  and  when  they  were  vital  there  was 
always  in  his  mind  the  question  as  to  whether  she  would  ap 
prove  or  not.  He  could  not  go  to  her  with  them,  but  mentally 
he  was  always  consulting  with  her,  earning  her  approbation. 
And  she  had  gone  without  a  word. 

"Do  you  think  she  has  gone  to  France?"  He  knew  his 
voice  sounded  stiff  and  constrained. 

"I  hope  not.  She  was  being  so  useful  here.  Of  course,  the 
draft  law — amazing  thing,  the  draft  law!  Never  thought 
we'd  come  to  it.  But  it  threw  her  out,  in  a  way,  of  course." 

"What  has  the  draft  law  to  do  with  Mrs.  Valentine?" 

"Why,  you  know  what  she  was  doing,  don't  you  ?" 

"I  haven't  seen  her  recently." 

The  rector  half -stopped. 

"Well !"  he  said.  "Let  me  tell  you,  Clayton,  that  that  girl 
has  been  recruiting  men,  night  after  night  and  day  after  day. 
She's  done  wonders.  Standing  in  a  wagon,  mind  you,  in  the 
slums,  or  anywhere;  I  heard  her  one  night.  By  George,  I 


3H  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

went  home  and  tore  up  a  sermon  I  had  been  working  on  for 
days." 

Why  hadn't  he  known?  Why  hadn't  he  realized  that  that 
was  exactly  the  sort  of  thing  she  would  do  ?  There  was  bitter 
ness  in  his  heart,  too.  He  might  easily  have  stood  unseen  in 
the  crowd,  and  have  watched  and  listened  and  been  proud  of 
her.  Then,  these  last  weeks,  when  he  had  been  working,  or 
dining  out,  or  sitting  dreary  and  bored  in  a  theater,  she  had 
been  out  in  the  streets.  Ah,  she  lived,  did  Audrey.  Others 
worked  and  played,  but  she  lived.  Audrey !  Audrey ! 

" in  the  rain,"  the  rector  was  saying.    "But  she  didn't 

mind  it.  I  remember  her  saying  to  the  crowd,  'It's  raining 
over  here,  and  maybe  it's  raining  on  the  fellows  in  the 
trenches.  But  I  tell  you,  I'd  rather  be  over  there,  up  to  my 
waist  in  mud  and  water,  than  scurrying  for  a  doorway  here/ 
They  had  started  to  run  out  of  the  shower,  but  at  that  they 
grinned  and  stopped.  She  was  wonderful,  Clayton." 

In  the  rain !  And  after  it  was  over  she  would  go  home,  in 
some  crowded  bus  or  car,  to  her  lonely  rooms,  while  he 
rolled  about  the  city  in  a  limousine!  It  was  cruel  of  her 
not  to  have  told  him,  not  to  have  allowed  him  at  least  to  see 
that  she  was  warm  and  dry. 

"I've  been  very  busy.  I  hadn't  heard,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Is 
it — was  it  generally  known?" 

Had  Natalie  known,  and  kept  it  from  him? 

"I  think  not.  Delight  saw  her  and  spoke  to  her,  I  be 
lieve." 

"And  you  have  no  idea  where  she  is  now." 

"None  whatever." 

He  learned  that  night  that  Natalie  had  known,  and  he  sur 
prised  a  little  uneasiness  in  her  face. 

"I — heard  about  it,"  she  said.  "I  can't  imagine  her  making 
a  speech.  She's  not  a  bit  oratorical." 

"We  might  have  sent  out  one  of  the  cars  for  her,  if  I'd 
known." 

"Oh,  she  was  looked  after  well  enough." 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  315 

"Looked  after?" 

Natalie  had  made  an  error,  and  knew  it. 

"I  heard  that  a  young  clergyman  was  taking  her  round," 
she  said,  and  changed  the  subject.  But  he  knew  that  she 
was  either  lying  or  keeping  something  from  him.  In  those 
days  of  tension  he  found  her  half-truths  more  irritating 
than  her  rather  childish  falsehoods.  In  spite  of  himself,  how 
ever,  the  thought  of  the  young  clergyman  rankled. 

That  night,  stretched  in  the  low  chair  in  his  dressing-room, 
under  the  reading  light,  he  thought  over  things  carefully.  If 
he  loved  her  as  he  thought  he  did,  he  ought  to  want  her  to 
be  happy.  Things  between  them  were  hopeless  and  wretched. 
If  this  clergyman,  or  Sloane,  or  any  other  man  loved  her,  and 
he  groaned  as  he  thought  how  lovable  she  was,  then  why  not 
want  for  her  such  happiness  as  she  could  find? 

He  slept  badly  that  night,  and  for  some  reason  Audrey 
wove  herself  into  his  dreams  of  the  new  plant.  The  roar 
of  the  machinery  took  on  the  soft  huskiness  of  her  voice,  the 
deeper  note  he  watched  for  and  loved. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

ANNA  KLEIN  stood  in  her  small  room  and  covered  her 
mouth  with  her  hands,  lest  she  shriek  aloud.  She  knew 
quite  well  that  the  bomb  in  the  suit-case  would  not  suffice 
to  blow  up  the  whole  great  plant.  But  she  knew  what  the 
result  of  its  explosion  would  be. 

The  shells  were  not  loaded  at  the  Spencer  plant.  They 
were  shipped  away  for  that.  But  the  fuses  were  loaded  there, 
and  in  the  small  brick  house  at  the  end  of  the  fuse  building 
there  were  stored  masses  of  explosive,  enough  to  destroy  a 
town.  It  was  there,  of  course,  that  Herman  was  to  place 
the  bomb.  She  knew  how  he  would  do  it,  carefully,  methodi 
cally,  and  with  what  a  lumbering  awkward  gait  he  would 
make  his  escape. 

Her  whole  mind  was  bent  on  giving  the  alarm.  On  escaping, 
first,  and  then  on  arousing  the  plant.  But  when  the  voices 
below  continued,  long  after  Herman  had  gone,  she  was  en 
tirely  desperate.  Herman  had  not  carried  out  the  suit-case. 
He  had  looked,  indeed,  much  as  usual  as  he  walked  out  the 
garden  path  and  closed  the  gate  behind  him.  He  had  walked 
rather  slowly,  but  then  he  always  walked  slowly.  She  seemed 
to  see,  however,  a  new  caution  in  his  gait,  as  of  one  who 
dreaded  to  stumble. 

She  dressed  herself,  with  shaking  fingers,  and  pinned  on  her 
hat.  The  voices  still  went  on  below,  monotonous,  endless; 
the  rasping  of  Rudolph's  throat,  irritated  by  cheap  cigarets,  the 
sound  of  glasses  on  the  table,  once  a  laugh,  guttural  and  mirth 
less.  It  was  ten  o'clock  when  she  knew,  by  the  pushing  back 
of  their  chairs,  that  they  were  preparing  to  depart.  Ten 
o'clock ! 

She  was  about  to  commence  again  the  feverish  unscrewing 

316 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 317 

of  the  door  hinges,  when  she  heard  Rudolph's  step  on  the 
stairs.  She  had  only  time  to  get  to  the  back  of  her  room,  be 
side  the  bed,  when  she  heard  him  try  the  knob. 

"Anna?" 

She  let  him  call  her  again. 

"Anna !" 

"What  is  it?" 

"You  in  bed?" 

"Yes.  Go  away  and  let  me  alone.  I've  got  a  right  to  sleep, 
anyhow." 

"I'm  going  out,  but  I'll  be  back  in  ten  minutes.  You  try 
any  tricks  and  I'll  get  you.  See  ?" 

"You  make  me  sick,"  she  retorted. 

She  heard  him  turn  and  run  lightly  down  the  stairs.  Only 
when  she  heard  the  click  of  the  gate  did  she  dare  to  begin 
again  at  the  door.  She  got  down-stairs  easily,  but  she  was  still 
a  prisoner.  However,  she  found  the  high  little  window  into 
the  coal-shed  open,  and  crawled  through  it,  to  stand  listening. 
The  street  was  quiet. 

Once  outside  the  yard  she  started  to  run.  They  would  let 
her  telephone  from  the  drug-store,  even  without  money.  She 
had  no  money.  But  the  drug-store  was  closed  and  dark,  and 
the  threat  of  Rudolph's  return  terrified  her.  She  must  get  off 
the  hill,  somehow. 

There  were  still  paths  down  the  steep  hill-side,  dangerous 
things  that  hugged  the  edge  of  small,  rocky  precipices,  or 
sloped  steeply  to  sudden  turns.  But  she  had  played  over  the 
hill  all  her  young  life.  She  plunged  down,  slipping  and  fall 
ing  a  dozen  times,  and  muttering,  some  times  an  oath,  some 
times  a  prayer, 

"Oh,  God,  let  me  be  in  time.    Oh,  God,  hold  him  up  a  while 

until  I—"  then  a  slip.     "If  I  fall  now " 

vOnly  when  she  was  down  in  the  mill  district  did  she  try  to 
make  any  plan.  It  was  almost  eleven  then,  and  her  ears  were 
tense  with  listening  for  the  sound  she  dreaded.  She  faced  her 
situation,  then.  She  could  not  telephone  from  a  private  house, 


318  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

either  to  the  mill  or  to  the  Spencer  house,  what  she  feared,  and 
the  pay-booths  of  the  telephone  company  demanded  cash  in 
advance.  She  was  incapable  of  clear  thought,  or  she  would 
have  found  some  way  out,  undoubtedly.  What  she  did,  in  the 
end,  was  to  board  an  up-town  car  ancf  throw  herself  on  the 
mercy  of  the  conductor. 

"I've  got  to  get  up-town,"  she  panted.  "I'll  not  go  in.  See? 
I'll  stand  here  and  you  take  me  as  far  as  you  can.  Look  at 
me !  I  don't  look  as  though  I'm  just  bumming  a  ride,  do  I  ?" 

The  conductor  hesitated.  He  had  very  little  faith  in  human 
nature,  but  Anna's  eyes  were  both  truthful  and  desperate. 
He  gave  the  signal  to  go  on. 

"What's  up  ?"  he  said.    "Police  after  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  Anna  replied  briefly. 

There  is,  in  certain  ranks,  a  tacit  conspiracy  against  the 
police.  The  conductor  hated  them.  They  rode  free  on  his 
car,  and  sometimes  kept  an  eye  on  him  in  the  rush  hours. 
They  had  a  way,  too,  of  letting  him  settle  his  own  disputes 
with  inebriated  gentlemen  who  refused  to  pay  their  fares. 

"Looks  as  though  they'd  come  pretty  close  to  grabbing  you," 
he  opened,  by  way  of  conversation.  "But  ten  of  'em  aren't  a 
match  for  one  smart  girl.  They  can't  run.  All  got  flat  feet." 

Anna  nodded.  She  was  faint  and  dizzy,  and  the  car  seemed 
to  creep  along.  It  was  twenty  minutes  after  eleven  when  she 
got  out.  The  conductor  leaned  down  after  her,  hanging  to  the 
handrail. 

"Good  luck  to  you !"  he  said.  "And  you'd  better  get  a  bet 
ter  face  on  you  than  that.  It's  enough  to  send  you  up,  on  sus 
picion  !" 

She  hardly  heard  him.  She  began  to  run,  and  again  she 
said  over  and  over  her  little  inarticulate  prayer.  She  knew 
the  Spencer  house.  More  than  once  she  had  walked  past  it, 
on  Sunday  afternoons,  for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  seeing  Gra 
ham's  home.  Well,  all  that  was  over  now.  Everything  was 
over,  unless 

The  Spencer  house  wras  dark,  save  for  a  low  light  in  the 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 


hall.  A  new  terror  seized  her.  Suppose  Graham  saw  her.  He 
might  not  believe  her  story.  He  might  think  it  a  ruse  to  see 
his  father.  But,  as  it  happened,  Clayton  had  sent  the  butler 
to  bed,  and  himself  answered  the  bell  from  the  library. 

He  recognized  her  at  once,  and  because  he  saw  the  distress 
on  her  face  he  brought  her  in  at  once.  In  the  brief  moment 
that  it  required  to  turn  on  the  lights  he  had  jumped  to  a 
sickening  conviction  that  Graham  was  at  the  bottom  of  her 
visit,  and  her  appearance  in  full  light  confirmed  this. 

"Come  into  the  library,"  he  said.  "We  can  talk  in  there.'" 
He  led  the  way  and  drew  up  a  chair  for  her.  But  she  did  not 
sit  down.  She  steadied  herself  by  its  back,  instead. 

"You  think  it's  about  Graham,"  she  began.  "It  isn't,  not 
directly,  that  is.  And  my  coming  is  terrible,  because  it's  my 
own  father.  They're  going  to  blow  up  the  munition  plant, 
Mr.  Spencer!" 

"When?" 

"To-night,  I  think.  I  came  as  fast  as  I  could.  I  was  locked 
in." 

"Locked  in?"     He  was  studying  her  face. 

"Yes.  Don't  bother  about  that  now.  I'm  not  crazy  or 
hysterical.  I  tell  you  I  heard  them.  I've  been  a  prisoner  or 
I'd  have  come  sooner.  To-day  they  brought  something  —  dyna 
mite  or  a  bomb  —  in  a  suit-case  —  and  it's  gone  to-night.  He 
took  it  —  my  father." 

He  was  already  at  the  telephone  as  she  spoke.  He  called 
the  mill  first,  and  got  the  night  superintendent.  Then  he 
called  a  number  Anna  supposed  was  the  police  station,  and  at 
the  same  time  he  was  ringing  the  garage-signal  steadily  for 
his  car.  By  the  time  he  had  explained  the  situation  to  the  po 
lice,  his  car  was  rolling  under  the  porte-cochere  beside  the 
house.  He  was  starting  out,  forgetful  of  the  girl,  when  she 
caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"You  mustn't  go!"  she  cried.  "You'll  be  killed,  too.  It 
will  all  go,  all  of  it.  You  can't  be  spared,  Mr.  Spencer.  You 
can  build  another  mill,  but  -  " 


320 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

He  shook  her  off,  gently. 

"Of  course  I'm  going,"  he  said.  "We'll  get  it  in  time. 
Don't  you  worry.  You  sit  down  here  and  rest,  and  when  it's 
all  straightened  out  I'll  come  back.  I  suppose  you  can't  go 
home,  after  this?" 

"No,"  she  said,  dully. 

He  ran  out,  hatless,  and  a  moment  later  she  heard  the  car 
rush  out  into  the  night. 

Five  minutes  passed.  Ten.  Anna  Klein  stood,  staring 
ahead  of  her.  When  nothing  happened  she  moved  around  and 
sat  down  in  the  chair.  She  was  frightfully  tired.  She  leaned 
her  head  back  and  tried  to  think  of  something  to  calm  her 
shaking  nerves, — that  this  was  Graham's  home,  that  he  some 
times  sat  in  that  very  chair.  But  she  found  that  Graham  meant 
nothing  to  her.  Nothing  mattered,  except  that  her  warning 
had  been  in  time. 

So  intent  was  she  on  the  thing  that  she  was  listening  for 
that  smaller,  near-by  sounds  escaped  her.  So  she  did  not 
hear  a  door  open  up-stairs  and  the  soft  rustle  of  a  woman's 
negligee  as  it  swept  from  stair  to  stair.  But  as  the  foot-steps 
outside  the  door  she  stood  up  quickly  and  looked  back  over 
her  shoulder. 

Natalie  stood  framed  in  the  doorway,  staring  at  her. 

"Well?"  she  said.  And  on  receiving  no  answer  from  the 
frightened  girl,  "What  are  you  doing  here?" 

The  ugly  suspicion  in  her  voice  left  Anna  speechless  for  a 
moment. 

"Don't  move,  please,"  said  Natalie's  cold  voice.  "Stay  just 
where  you  are."  She  reached  behind  the  curtain  at  the  door 
way,  and  Anna  heard  the  far-away  ringing  of  a  bell,  insistent 
and  prolonged.  The  girl  roused  herself  with  an  effort. 

"I  came  to  see  Mr.  Spencer." 

"That  is  a  likely  story !    Who  let  you  in  ?" 

"Mr.  Spencer." 

"Mr.  Spencer  is  not  in." 

"But  he  did.     I'm  telling  you  the  truth.     Indeed  I  am.     I 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 32_i 

rang  the  bell,  and  he  came  to  the  door.  I  had  something 
to  tell  him." 

"What  could  you  possibly  have  to  tell  my  husband  at  this 
hour." 

But  Anna  Klein  did  not  answer.  From  far  away  there 
came  a  dull  report,  followed  almost  immediately  by  a  second 
one.  The  windows  rattled,  and  the  house  seemed  to  rock 
rather  gently  on  its  foundation.  Then  silence. 

Anna  Klein  picked  up  her  empty  pocket-book  from  the 
table  and  looked  at  it. 

"I  was  too  late,"  she  said  dully,  and  the  next  moment  she 
was  lying  at  Natalie's  feet. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

IT  was  not  until  dawn  that  the  full  extent  of  the  disaster 
was  revealed.  All  night,  by  the  flames  from  the  sheds  in 
the  yard,  which  were  of  wood  and  still  burning,  rescue  parties 
had  worked  frantically.  Two  of  the  long  buildings,  nearest 
to  the  fuse  department,  had  collapsed  entirely.  Above  the 
piles  of  fallen  masonry  might  be  seen,  here  and  there,  the 
black  mass  of  some  machine  or  lathe,  and  it  was  there  the 
search  parties  were  laboring.  Luckily  the  fuse  department 
had  not  gone  double  turn,  and  the  night  shift  in  the  machine- 
shop  was  not  a  full  one. 

The  fuse  department  was  a  roaring  furnace,  and  repeated 
calls  had  brought  in  most  of  the  fire  companies  of  the  city. 
Running  back  and  forth  in  the  light  of  the  flames  were  the 
firemen  and  such  volunteer  rescuers  as  had  been  allowed 
through  the  police  cordon.  Outside  that  line  of  ropes  and 
men  were  gathered  a  tragic  crowd,  begging,  imploring  to  be 
allowed  through  to  search  for  some  beloved  body.  Now  and 
then  a  fresh  explosion  made  the  mob  recoil,  only  to  press  close 
again,  importuning,  tragic,  hopeless. 

The  casualty  list  ran  high.  All  night  long  ambulances  stood 
in  a  row  along  the  street,  backed  up  to  the  curb  and  waiting, 
and  ever  so  often  a  silent  group,  in  broken  step,  carried  out 
some  quiet  covered  thing  that  would  never  move  again. 

With  the  dawn  Graham  found  his  father.  He  had  thrown 
off  his  coat  and  in  his  shirt-sleeves  was,  with  other  rescuers, 
digging  in  the  ruins.  Graham  himself  had  been  working.  He 
was  nauseated,  weary,  and  unutterably  wretched,  for  he  had 
seen  the  night  superintendent  and  had  heard  of  his  father's 
message. 

''Klein !"  he  said.    "You  don't  mean  Herman  Klein  ?" 

322 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 323 

"That  was  what  he  said.  I  was  to  find  him  and  hold  him 
until  he  got  here.  But  I  couldn't  find  him.  He  may  have 
got  out.  There's  no  way  of  telling  now." 

Waves  of  fresh  nausea  swept  over  Graham.  He  sat  down 
on  a  pile  of  bricks  and  wiped  his  forehead,  clammy  with 
sweat. 

"I  hope  to  God  he  was  burned  alive,"  muttered  the  other 
man,  surveying  the  scene.  His  eyes  were  reddened  with 
smoke  from  the  fire,  his  clothing  torn. 

"I  was  knocked  down  myself,"  he  said.  "I  was  out  in  the 
yard  looking  for  Klein,  and  I  guess  I  lay  there  quite  a  while. 
If  I  hadn't  gone  out "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"How  many  women  were  on  the  night  shift?" 

"Not  a  lot.  Twenty,  perhaps.  If  I  had  my  way  I'd  take 
every  German  in  the  country  and  boil  'em  in  oil.  I  didn't 
want  Klein  back,  but  he  was  a  good  workman.  Well,  he's 
done  a  good  job  now." 

It  was  after  that  that  Graham  saw  his  father,  a  strange, 
wild-eyed  Clayton  who  drove  his  pick  with  a  sort  of  mad 
strength,  and  at  the  same  time  gave  orders  in  an  unfamiliar 
voice.  Graham,  himself  a  disordered  figure,  watched  him  for 
a  moment.  He  was  divided  between  fear  and  resolution. 
Some  place  in  that  debacle  there  lay  his  own  responsibility. 
He  was  still  bewildered,  but  the  fact  that  Anna's  father  had 
done  the  thing  was  ominous. 

The  urge  to  confession  was  stronger  than  his  fears.  Some 
how,  during  the  night,  he  had  become  a  man.  But  now  he 
only  felt  that  somehow,  during  the  night,  he  had  become  a 
murderer. 

Clayton  looked  up,  and  he  moved  toward  him." 

"Father." 

"Yes?" 

"I've  had  some  coffee  made  at  a  house  down  the  street. 
Won't  you  come  and  have  it?" 

Clayton  straightened.    He  was  very  tired,  and  the  yard  was 


324 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

full  of  volunteers  now,  each  provided  at  the  gate  with  a  pick 
or  shovel.  A  look  at  the  boy's  face  decided  him. 

'Til  come,"  he  said,  and  turned  his  pick  over  to  a  man  be 
side  him.  He  joined  Graham,  and  for  a  moment  he  looked 
into  the  boy's  eyes.  Then  he  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
together  they  walked  out,  past  the  line  of  ambulances,  into  a 
street  where  the  scattered  houses  showed  not  a  single  un- 
shattered  window,  and  the  pavements  were  littered  with  glass. 

His  father's  touch  comforted  the  boy,  but  it  made  even 
harder  the  thing  he  had  to  do.  For  he  could  not  go  through 
life  with  this  thing  on  his  soul.  There  had  been  a  moment, 
after  he  learned  of  Herman's  implication,  when  he  felt  the 
best  thing  would  be  to  kill  himself,  but  he  had  put  that  aside. 
It  was  too  easy.  If  Herman  Klein  had  done  this  thing  be 
cause  of  Anna  and  himself,  then  he  was  a  murderer.  If  he 
had  done  it  because  he  was  a  German,  then  he — Graham — 
had  no  right  to  die.  He  would  live  to  make  as  many  Ger 
mans  as  possible  pay  for  this  night's  work. 

"I've  got  something  to  tell  you,  father,"  he  said,  as  they 
paused  before  the  house  where  the  coffee  was  ready.  Clayton 
nodded,  and  together  they  went  inside.  Even  this  house  was 
partially  destroyed.  A  piece  of  masonry  had  gone  through  the 
kitchen,  and  standing  on  fallen  bricks  and  plaster,  a  cheerful 
old  woman  was  cooking  over  a  stove  which  had  somehow  es 
caped  destruction. 

"It's  bad,"  she  said  to  Graham,  as  she  poured  the  coffee  into 
cups,  "but  it  might  have  been  worse,  Mr.  Spencer.  We're 
all  alive.  And  I  guess  I'll  understand  what  my  boy's  writing 
home  about  now.  They've  sure  brought  the  war  here  this 
night." 

Graham  carried  the  coffee  into  the  little  parlor,  where 
Clayton  sat  dropped  on  a  low  chair,  his  hands  between  his 
knees.  He  was  a  strange,  disheveled  figure,  gray  of  face  and 
weary,  and  the  hand  he  held  out  for  the  cup  was  blistered  and 
blackened.  Graham  did  not  touch  his  coffee.  He  put  it  on 
the  mantel,  and  stood  waiting  while  Clayton  finished  his. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 325 

"Shall  I  tell  you  now,  sir?'* 

Clayton  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Yes." 

"It  was  Herman  Klein  who  did  it?" 

"Probably.  I  had  a  warning  last  night,  but  it  was  too  late. 
I  should  have  known,  of  course,  but  somehow  I  didn't.  He'd 
been  with  us  a  long  time.  I'd  have  sworn  he  was  loyal." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Graham  saw  his  father  weaken, 
the  pitiful,  ashamed  weakness  of  a  strong  man.  His  voice 
broke,  his  face  twitched.  The  boy  drew  himself  up;  they 
couldn't  both  go  to  pieces.  He  could  not  know  that  Clayton 
had  worked  all  that  night  in  that  hell  with  the  conviction  that 
in  some  way  his  own  son  was  responsible;  that  he  knew  al 
ready  what  Graham  was  about  to  tell  him. 

"If  Herman  Klein  did  it,  father,  it  was  because  he  was  the 
tool  of  a  gang.  And  the  reason  he  was  a  tool  was  because 
he  thought  I  was — living  with  Anna.  I  wasn't.  I  don't  know 
why  I  wasn't.  There  was  every  chance.  I  suppose  I  meant 
to  some  time.  Anyhow,  he  thought  I  was." 

If  he  had  expected  any  outbreak  from  Clayton,  he  met 
none.  Clayton  sat  looking  ahead,  and  listening.  Inside  of  the 
broken  windows  the  curtains  were  stirring  in  the  fresh  breeze 
of  early  morning,  and  in  the  kitchen  the  old  woman  was 
piling  the  fallen  bricks  noisily. 

"I  had  been  flirting  with  her  a  little — it  wasn't  much  more 
than  that,  and  I  gave  her  a  watch  at  Christmas.  He  found  it 
out,  and  he  beat  her.  Awfully.  She  ran  away  and  sent  for 
me,  and  I  met  her.  She  had  to  hide  for  days.  Her  face  was 
all  bruised.  Then  she  got  sick  from  it.  She  was  sick  for 
weeks." 

"Did  he  know  where  she  was?" 

"I  think  not,  or  he'd  have  gone  to  get  her.  But  Rudolph 
Klein  knew  something.  I  took  her  out  to  dinner,  to  a  road- 
house,  a  few  days  ago,  and  she  said  she  saw  him  there.  I 
didn't.  All  that  time,  weeks,  I'd  never — I'd  never  gone  to 
her  room.  That  night  I  did.  I  don't  know  why.  I " 


326 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Go  on." 

"Well,  I  went,  but  I  didn't  stay.  I  couldn't.  I  guess  she 
thought  I  was  crazy.  I  went  away,  that's  all.  And  the  next 
day  I  felt  that  she  might  be  feeling  as  though  I'd  turned  her 
down  or  something.  And  I  felt  responsible.  Maybe  you 
won't  understand.  I  don't  quite  myself.  Anyhow,  I  went 

back,  to  let  her  know  I  wasn't  quite  a  brute,  even  if But 

she  was  gone.    I'm  not  trying  to  excuse  myself.    It's  a  rotten 
story,  for  I  was  engaged  to  Marion  then." 

Suddenly  he  sat  down  beside  Clayton  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands.  For  some  reason  or  other  Clayton  found  him 
self  back  in  the  hospital,  that  night  when  Joey  lay  still  and 
quiet,  and  Graham  was  sobbing  like  a  child,  prostrate  on  the 
white  covering  of  the  bed.  With  the  incredible  rapidity  of 
thought  in  a  mental  crisis,  he  saw  the  last  months,  the  boy's 
desire  to  go  to  France  thwarted,  his  attempt  to  interest  himself 
in  the  business,  the  tool  Marion  Hayden  had  made  of  him, 
Anna's  doglike  devotion,  all  leading  inevitably  to  catastrophe. 
And  through  it  all  he  saw  Natalie,  holding  Graham  back  from 
war,  providing  him  with  extra  money,  excusing  him,  using 
his  confidences  for  her  own  ends,  insidiously  sapping  the  boy's 
confidence  in  his  father  and  himself. 

"We'll  have  to  stand  up  to  this  together,  Graham." 

The  boy  looked  up. 

"Then — you're  not  going  to  throw  me  over  altogether?" 

"No." 

"But— all  this !" 

"If  Herman  Klein  had  not  done  it,  there  were  others  who 
would,  probably.  It  looks  as  though  you  had  provided  them 
with  a  tool,  but  I  suppose  we  were  vulnerable  in  a  dozen 
ways." 

He  rose,  and  they  stood,  eyes  level,  father  and  son,  in  the 
early  morning  sunlight.  And  suddenly  Graham's  arms  were 
around  his  shoulders,  and  something  tight  around  Clayton's 
heart  relaxed.  Once  again,  and  now  for  good,  he  had  found 
his  boy,  the  little  boy  who  had  not  so  long  ago  stood  on  a 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 327 

chair  for  this  very  embrace.     Only  now  the  boy  was  a  man. 

"I'm  going  to  France,  father,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to 
pay  them  back  for  this.  And  out  of  every  two  shots  I  fire 
one  will  be  for  you." 

Perhaps  he  had  found  his  boy  only  to  lose  him,  but  that 
would  have  to  be  as  God  willed. 

At  ten  o'clock. he  went  up  to  the  house,  to  change  his  wet 
and  draggled  clothing.  The  ruins  were  being  guarded  by 
soldiers,  and  the  work  of  rescue  was  still  going  on,  more  slow 
ly  now,  since  there  was  little  or  no  hope  of  finding  any  still 
living  thing  in  that  flame-swept  wreckage.  He  found  Natalie 
in  bed,  with  Madeleine  in  attendance,  and  he  learned  that 
her  physician  had  just  gone. 

He  felt  that  he  could  not  talk  to  her  just  then.  She  had  a 
morbid  interest  in  horrors,  and  with  the  sights  of  that  night 
fresh  in  his  mind  he  could  not  discuss  them.  He  stopped, 
however,  in  her  doorway. 

"I'm  glad  you  are  resting,"  he  said.  "Better  stay  in  bed 
to-day.  It's  been  a  shock." 

"Resting!     I've  been  frightfully  ill." 

"I'm  sorry,  my  dear.    I'll  come  in  again  on  my  way  out/' 

"Clay!" 

He  turned  in  the  doorway. 

"Is  it  all  gone?    Everything?" 

"Practically.    Yes." 

"But  you  were  insured?" 

"I'll  tell  you  about  that  later.  I  haven't  given  it  much 
thought  yet.  I  don't  know  just  how  we  stand." 

"I  shall  never  let  Graham  go  back  to  it  again.  I  warn  you. 
I've  been  lying  here  for  hours,  thinking  that  it  might  have 
happened  as  easily  as  not  while  he  was  there." 

He  hardly  listened.    He  had  just  remembered  Anna. 

"I  left  a  girl  here  last  night,  Natalie,"  he  said.  "Do  you 
happen  to  know  what  became  of  her?" 

Natalie  stirred  on  her  pillows. 


328 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"I  should  think  I  do.  She  fainted,  or  pretended  to  faint. 
The  servants  looked  after  her." 

"Has  she  gone?" 

"I  hope  so.  It  is  almost  noon.  Oh,  by  the  way,"  she 
called,  as  he  moved  off,  "there  is  a  message  for  you.  A 
woman  named  Gould,  from  the  Central  Hospital.  She  wants 
to  see  you  at  once.  They  have  kept  the  telephone  ringing  all 
the  morning." 

Clare  Gould!  That  was  odd.  He  had  seen  her  taken  out, 
a  bruised  and  moaning  creature,  her  masses  of  fair  hair  over 
her  shoulders,  her  eyes  shut.  The  surgeons  had  said  she  was 
not  badly  hurt.  She  might  be  worse  than  they  thought.  The 
mention  of  her  name  brought  Audrey  before  him.  He  hoped, 
wherever  she  was,  she  would  know  that  he  was  all  right. 

As  soon  as  he  had  changed  he  called  the  hospital.  The 
message  came  back  promptly  and  clearly. 

"We  have  a  woman  named  Gould  here.  She  is  not  badly 
hurt,  but  she  is  hysterical.  She  wants  to  see  you,  but  if  you 
can't  come  at  once  I  am  to  give  you  a  message.  Wait  a  mo 
ment.  She  has  written  it,  but  it's  hardly  legible." 

Clayton  waited. 

"It's  about  somebody  you  know,  who  had  gone  on  night 
turn  recently  at  your  plant.  I  can't  read  the  name.  It  looks 
like  Ballantine." 

"It  isn't  Valentine,  is  it?" 

"Perhaps  it  is.  It's  just  a  scrawl.  But  the  first  name  is 
clear  enough — Audrey." 

Afterward  he  did  not  remember  hanging  up  the  receiver, 
or  getting  out  of  the  house.  He  seemed  to  come  to  himself 
somewhat  at  the  hospital,  and  at  the  door  to  Clare's  ward  his 
brain  suddenly  cleared.  He  did  not  need  Clare's  story.  It 
seemed  that  he  knew  it  all,  had  known  it  long  ages  before. 
Her  very  words  sounded  like  infinite  repetitions  of  something 
he  had  heard,  over  and  over. 

"She  was  right  beside  me,  and  I  was  showing  her  about  the 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 329 

lathe.  They'd  told  me  I  could  teach  her.  She  was  picking 
it  up  fast,  too.  And  she  liked  it.  She  liked  it " 

The  fact  that  Audrey  had  liked  it  broke  down  his  scanty 
reserve  of  restraint.  Clayton  found  himself  looking  down  at 
her  from  a  great  distance.  She  was  very  remote.  Clare  pulled 
herself  together. 

"When  the  first  explosion  came  it  didn't  touch  us.  But  I 
guess  she  knew  it  meant  more.  She  said  something  about  the 
telephone  and  getting  help  and  there'd  be  more,  and  she  started 
to  run.  I  just  stood  there,  watching  her  run,  and  waiting. 
And  then  the  second  one  came,  and " 

Suddenly  Clare  seemed  to  disappear  altogether.  He  felt 
something  catch  his  arm,  and  the  nurse's  voice,  very  calm 
and  quiet : 

"Sit  down.    I'll  get  you  something." 

Then  he  was  swallowing  a  fluid  that  burned  his  throat,  and 
Clare  was  crying  with  the  sheet  drawn  to  her  mouth,  and 
somewhere  Audrey 

He  got  up,  and  the  nurse  followed  him  out. 

"You  might  look  for  the  person  here,"  she  suggested.  "We 
have  had  several  brought  in." 

He  was  still  dazed,  but  he  followed  her  docilely.  Audrey 
was  not  there.  He  seemed  to  have  known  that,  too.  That 
there  would  be  a  long  search,  and  hours  of  agony,  and  at  the 
end — the  one  thing  he  did  not  know  was  what  was  to  be  at 
the  end. 

All  that  afternoon  he  searched,  going  from  hospital  to  hos 
pital.  And  at  each  one,  as  he  stopped,  that  curious  feeling  of 
inner  knowledge  told  him  she  was  not  there.  But  the  same 
instinct  told  him  she  was  not  dead.  He  would  have  known 
it  if  she  was  dead.  There  was  no  reasoning  in  it.  He  could 
not  reason.  But  he  knew,  somehow. 

Then,  late  in  the  afternoon,  he  found  her.  He  knew  that 
he  had  found  her.  It  was  as  though,  at  the  entrance  of  the 
hospital,  some  sixth  sense  had  told  him  this  was  right  at  last. 
He  was  quite  steady,  all  at  once.  She  was  here,  waiting  for 


33Q DANGEROUS  DAYS 

him  to  come.  And  now  he  had  come,  and  it  would  be  all 
right. 

Yet,  for  a  time,  it  seemed  all  wrong.  She  was  not  conscious, 
had  not  roused  since  she  was  brought  it.  There  were  white 
screens  around  her  bed,  and  behind  them  she  lay  alone.  They 
had  braided  her  hair  in  two  long  dark  braids,  and  there  was 
a  bandage  on  one  of  her  arms.  She  looked  very  young  and 
very  tired,  but  quite  peaceful. 

His  arrival  had  caused  a  small  stir  of  excitement,  his  own 
prominence,  the  disaster  with  which  the  country  was  ringing. 
But  for  a  few  minutes,  before  the  doctors  arrived,  he  was 
alone  with  her  behind  the  screen.  It  was  like  being  alone  with 
his  dead.  Bent  over  her,  his  face  pressed  to  one  of  her  quiet 
hands,  he  whispered  to  her  all  the  little  tendernesses,  the  ach 
ing  want  of  her,  that  so  long  he  had  buried  in  his  heart. 
Things  he  could  not  have  told  her,  waking,  he  told  her  then. 
It  seemed,  too,  that  she  must  rouse  to  them,  that  she  must  feel 
him  there  beside  her,  calling  her  back.  But  she  did  not  move. 

It  was  then,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  wondered  what  he 
would  do  if  she  should  die. 

The  doctors,  coming  behind  the  screen,  found  him  sitting 
erect  and  still,  staring  ahead  of  him,  with  a  strange  expression 
on  his  face.  He  had  just  decided  that  he  could  not,  under 
any  circumstances,  live  if  she  died. 

It  was  rather  a  good  thing  for  Clayton's  sanity  that  they 
gave  him  hope.  He  was  completely  unnerved,  tired  and  des 
perate.  Indeed,  when  they  came  in  he  had  been  picturing 
Audrey  and  himself,  wandering  hand  in  hand,  very  quietly  and 
contentedly,  in  some  strange  world  which  was  his  rather  hazy 
idea  of  the  Beyond.  It  seemed  to  him  quite  sane  and  ex 
traordinarily  happy. 

The  effort  of  meeting  the  staff  roused  him,  and  with  hope 
came  a  return  to  normality.  There  was  much  to  be  done, 
special  nurses,  a  private  room,  and — rather  reluctantly — 
friends  and  relatives  to  be  notified.  Only  for  a  few  minutes, 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 331 

out  of  all  of  life,  had  she  been  his.  He  must  give  her  up 
now.  Life  had  become  one  long  renunciation. 

He  did  not  go  home  at  all  that  night.  He  divided  his  time 
between  the  plant  and  the  hospital,  going  back  and  forward. 
Each  time  he  found  the  report  good.  She  was  still  strong; 
no  internal  injuries  had  manifested  themselves,  and  the  con 
cussion  would  probably  wear  off  before  long.  He  wanted  to  be 
there  when  she  first  opened  her  eyes.  He  was  afraid  she 
might  be  frightened,  and  there  would  be  a  bad  minute  when 
she  remembered — if  she  did  remember. 

At  midnight,  going  into  the  room,  he  found  Mrs.  Haverford 
beside  Audrey's  bed,  knitting  placidly.  She  seemed  to  accept 
his  being  there  as  perfectly  natural,  and  she  had  no  sick-room 
affectations.  She  did  not  whisper,  for  one  thing. 

"The  nurse  thinks  she  is  coming  round,  Clayton,"  she 
said.  "I  waited,  because  I  thought  she  ought  to  see  a  familiar 
face  when  she  does." 

Mrs.  Haverford  was  eminently  good  for  him.  Her  cheer 
ful  matter-of-factness,  her  competent  sanity,  restored  his  be 
lief  in  a  world  that  had  seemed  only  chaos  and  death.  How 
much,  he  wondered  later,  had  Mrs.  Haverford  suspected? 
He  had  not  been  in  any  condition  to  act  a  part.  But  whatever 
she  suspected  he  knew  was  locked  in  her  kindly  breast. 

Audrey  moved  slightly,  and  he  went  over  to  her.  When 
he  glanced  up  again  Mrs.  Haverford  had  gone  out. 

So  it  was  that  Audrey  came  back  to  him,  and  to  him  alone. 
She  asked  no  questions.  She  only  lay  quite  still  on  her  white 
pillows,  and  looked  at  him.  Even  when  he  knelt  beside  her 
and  drew  her  toward  him,  she  said  nothing,  but  she  lifted  her 
uninjured  hand  and  softly  caressed  his  bent  head.  Clayton 
never  knew  whether  Mrs.  Haverford  had  come  back  and  seen 
that  or  not.  He  did  not  care,  for  that  matter.  It  seemed  to 
him  just  then  that  all  the  world  must  know  what  was  so 
vitally  important,  so  transcendently  wonderful. 

Not  until  Audrey's  eyes  closed  again,  and  he  saw  that  she 
was  sleeping,  did  he  loosen  his  arms  from  around  her. 


332 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

When  at  last  he  went  out  to  the  stiffly  furnished  hospital 
parlor,  he  found  Mrs.  Haverford  sitting  there  alone,  still 
knitting.  But  he  rather  thought  she  had  been  crying.  There 
was  an  undeniably  moist  handkerchief  on  her  knee. 

"She  roused  a  little  while  ago,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak 
quietly,  and  as  though  Audrey's  rousing  were  not  the  wonder 
that  it  was.  "She  seemed  very  comfortable.  And  now  she's 
sleeping." 

"The  dear  child!"  said  Mrs.  Haverford.     "If  she  had  died, 

after  everything "  Her  plump  face  quivered.  "Things  have 

never  been  very  happy  for  her,  Clayton." 

"I'm  afraid  not."  He  went  to  a  window  and  stood  looking 
out.  The  city  was  not  quiet,  but  its  mighty  roar  of  the  day 
was  lowered  to  a  monotonous,  drowsy  humming.  From  the 
east,  reflected  against  low-hanging  clouds,  was  the  dull  red 
of  his  own  steel  mills,  looking  like  the  reflection  of  a  vast 
conflagration. 

"Not  very  happy,"  he  repeated. 

"Some  times,"  Mrs.  Haverford  was  saying,  "I  wonder  about 
things.  People  go  along  missing  the  best  things  in  life,  and 
— I  suppose  there  is  a  reason  for  it,  but  some  times  I  wonder 
if  He  ever  meant  us  to  go  on,  crucifying  our  own  souls." 

So.  she  did  know! 

"What  would  you  have  us  do  ?" 

"I  don't  know.    I  suppose  there  isn't  any  answer." 

Afterward,  Clayton  found  that  that  bit  of  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Haverford  took  on  the  unreality  of  the  rest  of  that 
twenty-four  hours.  But  one  part  of  it  stood  out  real  and 
hopelessly  true.  There  wasn't  any  answer ! 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

ANNA  KLEIN  had  gone  home,  at  three  o'clock  that  terri 
ble  morning,  a  trembling,  white-faced  girl.  She  had  done 
her  best,  and  she  had  failed.  Unlike  Graham,  she  had  no  feel 
ing  of  personal  responsibility,  but  she  felt  she  could  never 
again  face  her  father,  with  the  thing  that  she  knew  between 
them.  There  were  other  reasons,  too.  Herman  would  be  ar 
rested,  and  she  would  be  called  to  testify.  She  had  known. 
She  had  warned  Mr.  Spencer.  The  gang,  Rudolph's  gang, 
would  get  her  for  that. 

She  knew  where  they  were  now.  They  would  be  at  Gus's,  in 
the  back  room,  drinking  to  the  success  of  their  scheme,  and 
Gus,  who  was  a  German  too,  would  be  with  them,  offering  a 
round  of  drinks  on  the  house  now  and  then  as  his  share  of 
the  night's  rejoicing.  Gus,  who  was  already  arranging  to  help 
draft-dodgers  by  sending  them  over  the  Mexican  border. 

She  would  have  to  go  back,  to  get  in  and  out  again  if  she 
could,  before  Herman  came  back.  She  had  no  clothes,  ex 
cept  what  she  stood  up  in,  and  those  in  her  haste  that  night 
were  only  her  print  house-dress  with  a  long  coat.  She  would 
have  to  find  a  new  position,  and  she  would  have  to  have  her 
clothing  to  get  about  in.  She  dragged  along,  singularly  un 
molested.  Once  or  twice  a  man  eyed  her,  but  her  white  face 
and  vacant  eyes  were  unattractive,  almost  sodden. 

She  was  barely  able  to  climb  the  hill,  and  as  she  neared  the 
house  her  trepidation  increased.  What  if  Herman  had  come 
back?  If  he  suspected  her  he  would  kill  her.  He  must  have 
been  half  mad  to  have  done  the  thing,  anyhow.  He  would 
surely  be  half  mad  now.  And  because  she  was  young  and 
strong,  and  life  was  still  a  mystery  to  be  solved,  she  did  not 
want  to  die.  Strangely  enough,  face  to  face  with  danger, 

333 


334 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

there  was  still,  in  the  back  of  her  head,  an  exultant  thrill  in  her 
very  determination  to  live.  She  would  start  over  again,  and 
she  would  work  hard  and  make  good. 

"You  bet  I'll  make  good/'  she  resolved.  "Just  give  me  a 
chance  and  I'll  work  my  fool  head  off." 

Which  was  by  way  of  being  a  prayer. 

It  was  the  darkest  hour  before  the  dawn  when  she  reached 
the  cottage.  It  was  black  and  very  still,  and  outside  the  gate 
she  stooped  and  slipped  off  her  shoes.  The  window  into  the 
shed  by  which  she  had  escaped  was  still  open,  and  she 
crouched  outside,  listening.  When  the  stillness  remained  un 
broken  she  climbed  in,  tense  for  a  movement  or  a  blow. 

Once  inside,  however,  she  drew  a  long  breath.  The  doors 
were  still  locked,  and  the  keys  gone.  So  Herman  had  not 
returned.  But  as  she  stood  there,  hurried  stealthy  footsteps 
came  along  the  street  and  turned  in  at  the  gate.  In  a  panic 
she  flew  up  the  stairs  and  into  her  room,  where  the  door 
still  hung  crazily  on  its  hinges.  She  stood  there,  listening,  her 
heart  pounding  in  her  ears,  and  below  she  distinctly  heard  a 
key  in  the  kitchen  door.  She  did  the  only  thing  she  could 
think  of.  She  lifted  the  door  into  place,  and  stood  against  it, 
bracing  it  with  her  body. 

Whoever  it  was  was  in  the  kitchen  now,  moving  however 
more  swiftly  than  Herman.  She  heard  matches  striking. 
Then: 

"Hsst!" 

She  knew  that  it  was  Rudolph,  and  she  braced  herself 
mentally.  Rudolph  was  keener  than  Herman.  If  he  found 
her  door  in  that  condition,  and  she  herself  dressed — !  Work 
ing  silently  and  still  holding  the  door  in  place,  she  flung  off 
her  coat.  She  even  unpinned  her  hair  and  unfastened  her 
dress. 

When  his  signal  remained  unanswered  a  second  time  he 
called  her  by  name,  and  she  heard  him  coming  up. 

"Anna!"  he  repeated. 

"Yes?" 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 335 

He  was  startled  to  hear  her  voice  so  close  to  the  door.  In 
the  dark  she  heard  him  fumbling  for  the  knob.  He  happened 
on  the  padlock  instead,  and  he  laughed  a  little.  By  that  she 
knew  that  he  was  not  quite  sober. 

"Locked  you  in,  has  he  ?" 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Has  Herman  come  home  yet?" 

"He  doesn't  get  home  until  seven." 

"Hasn't  he  been  back  at  all,  to-night?" 

She  hesitated. 

"How  do  I  know?     I've  been  asleep!" 

"Some  sleep !"  he  said,  and  suddenly  lurched  against  the 
door.  In  spite  of  her  it  yielded,  and  although  she  braced 
herself  with  all  her  strength,"  his  weight  against  it  caused  it 
to  give  way.  It  was  a  suspicious,  crafty  Rudolph  who  picked 
himself  up  and  made  a  clutch  at  her  in  the  dark. 

"You  little  liar,"  he  said  thickly.  And  struck  a  match.  She 
cowered  away  from  him. 

"I  was  going  to  run  away,  Rudolph,"  she  cried.  "He 
hasn't  any  business  locking  me  in.  I  won't  stand  for  it." 

"You've  been  out." 

"No!" 

"Out— after  him!" 

"Honest  to  God,  Rudolph,  no.  I  hate  him.  I  don't  ever 
want  to  see  him  again." 

He  put  a  hand  out  into  the  darkness,  and  finding  her,  tried 
to  draw  her  to  him.  She  struggled,  and  he  released  her.  All 
at  once  she  knew  that  he  was  weak  with  fright.  The  bravado 
had  died  out  of  him.  The  face  she  had  touched  was  covered 
with  a  clammy  sweat. 

"I  wish  to  God  Herman  would  come." 

"What  d'  you  want  with  him  ?" 

"Have  you  got  any  whisky?" 

"You've  had  enough  of  that  stuff." 

Some  one  was  walking  along  the  street  outside.     She  felt 


336 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

that  he  was  listening,  crouched  ready  to  run ;  but  the  steps 
went  on. 

"Look  here,  Anna,"  he  said,  when  he  had  pulled  himself 
together  again.  "I'm  going  to  get  out  of  this.  I'm  going 
away." 

"All  right.    You  can  go  for  all  of  me." 

"D'you  mean  to  say  you've  been  asleep  all  night?  You 
didn't  hear  anything?" 

"Hear  what?" 

He  laughed. 

"You'll  know  soon  enough."  Then  he  told  her,  hurriedly, 
that  he  was  going  away.  He'd  come  back  to  get  her  to  promise 
to  follow  him.  He  wasn't  going  to  stay  here  and 

"And  what?" 

"And  be  drafted,"  he  finished,  rather  lamely. 

"Gus  has  a  friend  in  a  town  on  the  Mexican  border,"  he 
said.  "He's  got  maps  of  the  country  to  Mexico  City,  and  the 
Germans  there  fix  you  up  all  right.  I'll  get  rich  down  there 
and  some  day  I'll  send  for  you What's  that?" 

He  darted  to  the  window,  faintly  outlined  by  a  distant 
street-lamp.  Three  men  were  standing  quietly  outside  the  gate, 
and  a  fourth  was  already  in  the  garden,  silently  moving  toward 
the  house.  She  felt  Rudolph  brush  by  her,  and  the  trembling 
hand  he  laid  on  her  arm. 

"Now  lie!"  he  whispered  fiercely.  "You  haven't  seen  me. 
I  haven't  been  here  to-night." 

Then  he  was  gone.  She  ran  to  the  window.  The  other  three 
men  were  coming  in,  moving  watchfully  and  slowly,  and  Ru 
dolph  was  at  Katie's  window,  cursing.  If  she  was  a  prisoner, 
so  was  Rudolph.  He  realized  that  instantly,  and  she  heard 
him  breaking  out  the  sash  with  a  chair.  At  the  sound  the 
three  figures  broke  into  a  run,  and  she  heard  the  sash  give 
way.  Almost  instantly  there  was  firing.  The  first  shot  was 
close,  and  she  knew  it  was  Rudolph  firing  from  the  window. 
Some  wild  design  of  braining  him  from  behind  with  a  chair 
flashed  into  her  desperate  mind,  but  when  she  had  felt  her 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 337 

way  into  Katie's  room  he  had  gone.  The  garden  below  was 
quiet,  but  there  was  yelling  and  the  crackling  of  underbrush 
from  the  hill-side.  Then  a  scattering  of  shots  again,  and  si 
lence.  The  yard  was  empty. 

The  hill  paid  but  moderate  attention  to  shots.  They  were 
usually  merely  pyrotechnic,  and  indicated  rejoicing  rather  than 
death.  But  here  and  there  she  heard  a  window  raised,  and 
then  lowered  again.  The  hill  had  gone  back  to  bed. 

Anna  went  into  her  room  and  dressed.  For  the  first  time 
it  had  occurred  to  her  that  she  might  be  held  by  the  police, 
and  the  thought  was  unbearable.  It  was  when  she  was  making 
her  escape  that  she  found  a  prostrate  figure  in  the  yard,  and 
knew  that  one  of  Rudolph's  shots  had  gone  home.  She  could 
not  go  away  and  leave  that,  not  unless 

A  terrible  hatred  of  Herman  and  Rudolph  and  all  their  kind 
suddenly  swept  over  her.  She  would  not  run  away.  She 
would  stay  and  tell  all  the  terrible  truth.  It  was  her  big  mo 
ment,  and  she  rose  to  it.  She  would  see  it  through.  What 
was  her  own  safety  to  letting  this  band  of  murderers  escape? 
And  all  that  in  the  few  seconds  it  took  to  reach  the  fallen 
figure.  It  was  only  when  she  was  very  close  that  she  saw  it 
was  moving. 

"Tell  Dunbar  he  went  to  the  left,"  a  voice  was  saying.  "The 
left!  They'll  lose  him  yet." 

"Joey!" 

"Hello,"  said  Joey's  voice.  He  considered  that  he  was 
speaking  very  loud,  but  it  was  hardly  more  than  a  whisper. 
"That  wasn't  your  father,  was  it?  The  old  boy  couldn't 
jump  and  run  like  that." 

"Are  you  hurt?" 

He  coughed  a  little,  a  gurgling  cough  that  rather  startled 
himself.  But  he  was  determined  to  be  a  man. 

"No.  I  just  lay  down  here  for  a  nap.  Who  was  it  that 
jumped  ?" 

"My  cousin  Rudolph.  Do  you  think  I  can  help  you  into  the 
house?" 


338 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"I'll  walk  there  myself  in  a  minute.  Unless  your  cousin 

Rudolph "  His  head  dropped  back  on  her  arm.  "I  feel 

sort  of  all  in."  His  voice  trailed  off. 

"Joey!" 

"Lemme  alone/'  he  muttered.  "I'm  the  first  casualty  in  the 

American  army !  I "  He  made  a  desperate  effort  to  speak 

in  a  man's  voice,  but  the  higher  boyish  notes  of  sixteen  con 
quered.  "They  certainly  gave  us  hell  to-night.  But  we're  go 
ing  to  build  again,  me  and — Clayton  Spen " 

All  at  once  he  was  very  still.  Anna  spoke  to  him  and,  that 
failing,  gave  him  a  frantic  little  shake.  But  Joey  had  gone  to 
another  partnership  beyond  the  stars. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

THE  immediate  outstanding  result  of  the  holocaust  at  the 
munitions  works  was  the  end  of  Natalie's  dominion  over 
Graham.      She   never  quite    forgave   him   the   violence   with 
which  he  threw  off  her  shackles. 

"If  I'd  been  half  a  man  I'd  have  been  over  there  long  ago," 
he  said,  standing  before  her,  tall  and  young  and  flushed.  "I'd 
have  learned  my  job  by  now,  and  I'd  be  worth  something,  now 
I'm  needed." 

"And  broken  my  heart." 

"Hearts  don't  break  that  way,  mother." 

"Well,  you  say  you  are  going  now.  I  should  think  you'd 
be  satisfied.  There's  plenty  of  time  for  you  to  get  the  glory 
you  want." 

"Glory!  I  don't  want  any  glory.  And  as  for  plenty  of 
time — that's  exactly  what  there  isn't." 

During  the  next  few  days  she  preserved  an  obstinate  si 
lence  on  the  subject.  She  knew  he  had  been  admitted  to  one 
of  the  officers'  training-camps,  and  that  he  was  making  rather 
helpless  and  puzzled  purchases.  Going  into  his  room  she 
would  find  a  dressing-case  of  khaki  leather,  perhaps,  or  flan 
nel  shirts  of  the  same  indeterminate  hue.  She  would  shed 
futile  tears  over  them,  and  order  them  put  out  of  sight.  But 
she  never  offered  to  assist  him. 

Graham  was  older,  in  many  ways.  He  no  longer  ran  up 
and  down  the  stairs  whistling,  and  he  sought  every  oppor 
tunity  to  be  with  his  father.  They  spent  long  hours  together 
in  the  library,  when,  after  a  crowded  day,  filled  with  the  thou 
sand  problems  of  reconstructions,  Clayton  smoked  a  great 
deal,  talked  a  little,  rather  shame-facedly  after  the  manner  of 
men,  of  personal  responsibility  in  the  war,  and  quietly  watched 
the  man  who  was  Graham. 

339 


340 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Out  of  those  quiet  hours,  with  Natalie  at  the  theater  or 
reading  up-stairs  in  bed,  Clayton  got  the  greatest  comfort 
of  his  life.  He  would  neither  look  back  nor  peer  anxiously 
ahead. 

The  past,  with  its  tragedy,  was  gone.  The  future  might  hold 
even  worse  things.  But  just  now  he  would  live  each  day  as 
it  came,  working  to  the  utmost,  and  giving  his  evenings  to  his 
boy.  The  nights  were  the  worst.  He  was  not  sleeping  well, 
and  in  those  long  hours  of  quiet  he  tried  to  rebuild  his  life 
along  stronger,  sterner  lines.  Love  could  have  no  place  in  it, 
but  there  was  work  left.  He  was  strong  and  he  was  still 
young.  The  country  should  have  every  ounce  of  energy  in 
him.  He  would  re-build  the  plant,  on  bigger  lines  than  be 
fore,  and  when  that  was  done,  he  would  build  again.  The 
best  he  could  do  was  not  enough. 

He  scarcely  noticed  Natalie's  withdrawal  from  Graham  and 
himself.  When  she  was  around  he  was  his  old  punctilious 
self,  gravely  kind,  more  than  ever  considerate.  Beside  his 
failure  to  her,  her  own  failure  to  him  faded  into  insignificance. 
She  was  as  she  was,  and  through  no  fault  of  hers.  But  he 
was  what  he  had  made  himself. 

Once  or  twice  he  had  felt  an  overwhelming  remorse  to 
ward  her,  and  on  one  such  occasion  he  had  made  a  useless  ef 
fort  to  break  down  the  barrier  of  her  long  silence. 

"Don't  go  up-stairs,  Natalie,"  he  had  begged.  "I  am  not 
very  amusing,  I  know,  but — I'll  try  my  best.  I'll  promise  not 
to  touch  on  anything  disagreeable."  He  had  been  standing  in 
the  hall,  looking  up  at  her  on  the  stair-case,  and  he  smiled. 
There  was  pleading  behind  the  smile,  an  inarticulate  feeling 
that  between  them  there  might  at  least  be  friendship. 

"You  are  never  disagreeable,"  she  had  said,  looking  down 
with  hostile  eyes.  "You  are  quite  perfect." 

"Then  won't  you  wait?" 

"Perfection  bores  me  to  tears,"  she  said,  and  went  on  up 
the  stairs. 

On  the  morning  of  Graham's  departure,  however,  he  found 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 341 

her  prepared  to  go  to  the  railway-station.  She  was  red-eyed 
and  pale,  and  he  was  very  sorry  for  her. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  wise  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  shall  see  him  off,  of  course.    I  may  never  see  him  again." 

And  his  own  tautened  nerves  almost  gave  way. 

"Don't  say  that!"  he  cried.  "Don't  even  think  that.  And 
for  God's  sake,  Natalie,  send  him  off  with  a  smile.  That's  the 
least  we  can  do." 

"I  can't  take  it  as  casually  as  you  do." 

He  gave  up  then  in  despair.  He  saw  that  Graham  watched 
her  uneasily  during  the  early  breakfast,  and  he  surmised  that 
the  boy's  own  grip  on  his  self-control  was  weakened  by  the 
tears  that  dropped  into  her  coffee-cup.  He  reflected  bitterly 
that  all  over  the  country  strong  women,  good  women,  were 
sending  their  boys  away  to  war,  giving  them  with  prayer  and 
exaltation.  What  was  wrong  with  Natalie  ?  What  was  wrong 
with  his  whole  life? 

When  Graham  was  up-stairs,  he  turned  to  her. 

"Why  do  you  persist  in  going,  Natalie?" 

"I  intend  to  go.    That's  enough." 

"Don't  you  think  you've  made  him  unhappy  enough?" 

"He  has  made  me  unhappy  enough." 

"You.  It  is  always  yourself,  Natalie.  Why  don't  you  ever 
think  of  him?"  He  went  to  the  door.  "Countermand  the 
order  for  the  limousine,"  he  said  to  the  butler,  "and  order  the 
small  car  for  Mr.  Graham  and  myself." 

"How  dare  you  do  that  ?" 

"I  am  not  going  to  let  you  ruin  the  biggest  day  in  his  life." 

She  saw  that  he  meant  it.  She  was  incredulous,  reckless, 
angry,  and  thwarted  for  the  first  time  in  her  self-indulgent 
life. 

"I  hate  you,"  she  said  slowly.    "I  hate  you !" 

She  turned  and  went  slowly  up  the  stairs.  Graham,  knock 
ing  at  her  door  a  few  minutes  later,  heard  the  sound  of  hysteri 
cal  sobbing  within,  but  received  no  reply. 


342 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Good-by,  mother,"  he  called.  "Good-by.  Don't  worry. 
I'll  be  all  right." 

When  he  saw  sne  did  not  mean  to  open  the  door  or  to  re 
ply,  he  went  rather  heavily  down  the  stairs. 

"I  wish  she  wouldn't/'  he  said.  "It  makes  me  darned  un 
happy." 

But  Clayton  surmised  a  relief  behind  his  regret,  and  in  the 
train  the  boy's  eyes  were  happier  than  they  had  been  for 
months. 

"I  don't  know  how  I'll  come  out,  dad,"  he  said.  "But  if 
I  don't  get  through  it  won't  be  because  I  didn't  try." 

And  he  did  try.  The  enormous  interest  of  the  thing  gripped 
him  from  the  start.  There  was  romance  in  it,  too.  He  wore 
his  first  uniform,  too  small  for  him  as  it  was,  with  immense 
pride.  He  rolled  out  in  the  morning  at  reveille,  with  the  feel 
ing  that  he  had  just  gone  to  bed,  ate  hugely  at  breakfast, 
learned  to  make  his  own  cot-bed,  and  lined  up  on  a  vast  dusty 
parade  ground  for  endless  evolutions  in  a  boiling  sun. 

It  was  rather  amusing  to  find  himself  being  ordered  about, 
in  a  stentorian  voice,  by  Jackson.  And  when,  in  off  moments, 
that  capable  ex-chauffeur  condescended  to  a  few  moments  of 
talk  and  relaxation,  the  boy  was  highly  gratified. 

"Do  you  think  I've  got  anything  in  me?"  he  would  inquire 
anxiously. 

And  Jackson  always  said  heartily,  "Sure  you  have." 

There  were  times  when  Graham  doubted  himself,  however. 
There  was  one  dreadful  hour  when  Graham,  in  the  late  after 
noon,  and  under  the  eyes  of  his  commanding  officer  and  a 
group  of  ladies,  conducting  the  highly  formal  and  complicated 
ceremony  of  changing  the  guard,  tied  a  lot  of  grinning  men 
up  in  a  knot  which  required  the  captain  of  the  company  and 
two  sergeants  to  untangle. 

"I'm  no  earthly  good,"  he  confided  to  Jackson  that  night, 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  his  barracks.  "I  know  it  like  a-b-c,  and 
then  I  get  up  and  try  it  and  all  at  once  I'm  just  a  plain  damned 
fool/1 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 343 

"Don't  give  up  like  that,  son,"  Jackson  said.  "I've  seen  'em 
march  a  platoon  right  into  the  C.O's  porch  before  now.  And 
once  I  just  saved  a  baby-buggy  and  a  pair  of  twins." 

Clayton  wrote  him  daily,  and  now  and  then  there  came  a 
letter  from  Natalie,  cheerful  on  the  surface,  but  its  cheerful 
ness  obviously  forced.  And  once,  to  his  great  surprise,  Mar 
ion  Hayden  wrote  him. 

"I  just  want  you  to  know,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  still  inter 
ested  in  you,  even  if  it  isn't  going  to  be  anything  else.  And 
that  I  am  ridiculously  proud  of  you.  Isn't  it  queer  to  look 
back  on  last  winter  and  think  what  a  lot  of  careless  idiots  we 
were?  I  suppose  war  doesn't  really  change  us,  but  it  does 
make  us  wonder  what  we've  got  in  us.  I  am  surprised  to  find 
that  I  am  a  great  deal  better  than  I  ever  thought  I  was !" 

There  was  comfort  in  the  letter,  but  no  thrill.  He  was  far 
away  from  all  that  now,  like  one  on  »the  first  stage  of  a  long 
journey,  with  his  eyes  ahead. 

Then  one  day  he  saw  a  familiar  but  yet  strange  figure  strid 
ing  along  the  country  road.  Graham  was  map-sketching  that 
day,  and  the  strange  but  familiar  figure  was  almost  on  him 
when  he  looked  up.  It  was  extremely  military,  and  looked  like 
a  general  at  least.  Also  it  was  very  red  in  the  face,  and  was 
clutching  doggedly  in  its  teeth  an  old  briar  pipe.  But  what 
had  appeared  from  the  front  to  be  an  ultra  military  figure  on 
closer  inspection  turned  out  to  be  a  procession.  Pulling  back 
hard  on  a  rope  behind  was  the  company  goat,  Elinor. 

The  ultra-military  figure  paused  by  Graham's  sketching- 
stool,  and  said,  "Young  man,  do  you  know  where  this  creature 
belongs?  I  found  her  trying  to  commit  suicide  on  the  rifle 
range — why,  Graham!" 

It  was  Doctor  Haverford.  He  grew  a  trifle  less  military 
then,  and  borrowed  some  pipe  tobacco.  He  looked  oddly 
younger,  Graham  thought,  and  rather  self-conscious  of  his 
uniform. 

"Every  inch  a  soldier,  Graham,"  he  chuckled.  "Still  have 
to  use  a  hook  and  eye  at  the  bottom  of  the  coat — blouse,"  he 


344 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

corrected  himself.  "But  I'm  getting  my  waist-line  again. 
How's  the — whoa!"  he  called,  as  Elinor  wrapped  the  rope 
around  his  carefully  putteed  legs.  "Infernal  animal !"  he 
grumbled.  "I  just  paid  a  quarter  to  have  these  puttees  shined. 
How's  the  family?" 

"Mother  has  gone  to  Linndale.  The  house  is  finished. 
Have  you  been  here  long,  sir?" 

"Two  weeks.  Hang  it  all,  Graham,  I  wish  I'd  let  this  crea 
ture  commit  suicide.  She's do  you  know  Delight  is 

here?" 

"Here?    Why,  no." 

"At  the  hostess  house,"  said  the  chaplain,  proudly.  "Doing 
her  bit,  too.  Mrs.  Haverford  wanted  to  come  too,  and  sew 
buttons  on,  or  something.  But  I  told  her  two  out  of  three 
was  a  fair  percentage.  I  hear  that  Washington  has  sent  for 
your  father." 

"I  hadn't  heard." 

"He's  a  big  man,  Graham.  We're  going  to  hear  from  him. 
Only — I  thought  he  looked  tired  when  I  saw  him  last.  Some 
body  ought  to  look  after  him  a  bit."  He  was  patiently  un 
tangling  himself  from  Elinor's  rope.  "You  know  there  are 
two  kinds  of  people  in  the  world :  those  who  look  after  them 
selves  and  those  who  look  after  others.  That's  your  father — 
the  last." 

Graham's  face  clouded.  How  true  that  was!  He  knew 
now,  as  he  had  not  known  before.  He  was  thinking  clearly 
those  days.  Hard  work  and  nothing  to  drink  had  clarified  his 
mind,  and  he  saw  things  at  home  as  they  really  were.  Clay 
ton's  infinite  patience,  his  strength  and  his  gentleness.  But  he 
only  said: 

"He  has  had  a  hard  year."  He  raised  his  eyes  and  looked 
at  the  chaplain.  "I  didn't  help  him  any,  you  know,  sir." 

"Well,  well,  that's  all  over  now.  We've  just  one  thing  to 
think  of,  and  that's  to  beat  those  German  devils  back  to  Berlin. 
And  then  burn  Berlin/'  he  added,  militantly. 

wThe  last  Graham  saw  of  him,  he  was  dragging  Elinor  down 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 345 

the  road,  and  a  faint  throaty  humming  came  back,  which 
sounded  suspiciously  like  "Where  do  we  go  from  here,  boys? 
Where  do  we  go  from  here?" 

Candidate  Spencer  took  great  pains  with  his  toilet  that 
afternoon.  He  polished  his  shoes,  and  shaved,  and  he  spent 
a  half  hour  on  some  ten  sadly  neglected  finger-nails.  At  re 
treat  he  stood  at  attention  in  the  long  line,  and  watched  the 
flag  moving  slowly  and  majestically  to  the  stirring  bugle  notes. 
Something  swelled  almost  to  bursting  in  his  throat.  That  was 
his  flag.  He  was  going  to  fight  for  it.  And  after  that  was 
done  he  was  going  to  find  some  girl,  some  nice  girl — the  sort, 
for  instance,  that  would  leave  her  home  to  work  in  a  hostess 
house.  And  having  found  her,  he  would  marry  her,  and  love 
and  cherish  her  all  his  life.  Unless,  of  course,  she  wouldn't 
have  him.  He  was  inclined  to  think  she  wouldn't. 

He  ate  very  little  supper  that  night,  little  being  a  compara 
tive  term,  of  course.  And  then  he  went  to  discover  Delight. 
It  appeared,  however,  that  she  had  been  already  discovered. 
She  was  entirely  surrounded  by  uniforms,  and  Graham  furi 
ously  counted  a  colonel,  two  majors,  and  a  captain. 

"Pulling  rank,  of  course!"  he  muttered,  and  retired  to  a 
corner,  where  he  had  at  least  the  mild  gratification  of  seeing 
that  even  the  colonel  could  not  keep  Delight  from  her  work. 

"Silly  asses!"  said  Graham,  again,  and  then  she  saw  him. 
There  was  no  question  about  her  being  pleased.  She  was 
quite  flushed  with  it,  but  a  little  uncomfortable,  too,  at 
Graham's  attitude.  He  was  oddly  humble,  and  yet  he  had  a 
look  of  determination  that  was  almost  grim.  She  filled  in  a 
rather  disquieting  silence  by  trying  to  let  him  know,  without 
revealing  that  she  had  ever  been  anything  else,  how  proud  she 
was  of  him.  Then  she  realized  that  he  was  not  listening,  and 
that  he  was  looking  at  her  with  an  almost  painful  intensity. 

"When  can  you  get  away,  Delight?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"From  here  ?"  She  cast  an  appraising  glance  over  the  room, 
"Right  away,  I  think.  Why?" 

"Because  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  and  I  can't  talk  to  you  here." 


346 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

She  brought  a  bright  colored  sweater  and  he  helped  her 
into  it,  still  with  his  mouth  set  and  his  eyes  a  trifle  sunken. 
All  about  there  were  laughing  groups  of  men  in  uniform.  Out 
side,  the  parade  glowed  faintly  in  the  dusk,  and  from  the  low 
barrack  windows  there  came  the  glow  of  lights,  the  movement 
of  young  figures,  voices,  the  thin  metallic  notes  of  a  mandolin. 

"How  strange  it  all  is,"  Delight  said.  "Here  we  are,  you 
and  father  and  myself — and  even  Jackson.  I  saw  him  to-day. 
All  here,  living  different  lives,  doing  different  things,  even 
thinking  different  thoughts.  It's  as  though  we  had  all  moved 
into  a  different  world." 

He  walked  on  beside  her,  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts, 
kwhich  were  yet  only  of  her. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  here,"  he  brought  out  finally. 

"That's  because  you've  been  burying  yourself.  I  knew  you 
were  here." 

"Why  didn't  you  send  me  some  word?" 

She  stiffened  somewhat  in  the  darkness. 

"I  didn't  think  you  would  be  greatly  interested,  Graham." 

And  again,  struggling  with  his  new  humility,  he  was  silent. 
It  was  not  until  they  had  crossed  the  parade  ground  and  were 
beyond  the  noises  of  the  barracks  .that  he  spoke  again. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  talk  to  you,  Delight?  I  mean,  about 
myself?  I — since  you're  here,  we're  likely  to  see  each  other 
now  and  then,  if  you  are  willing.  And  I'd  like  to  start 
straight." 

"Do  you  really  want  to  tell  me  ?" 

"No.    But  I've  got  to.     That's  all." 

He  told  her.  He  made  no  case  for  himself.  Indeed,  some 
of  it  Delight 'understood  far  better  than  he  did  himself.  He 
said  nothing  against  Marion ;  on  the  contrary,  he  blamed  him 
self  rather  severely.  And  behind  his  honest,  halting  sentences, 
Delight  read  his  own  lack  of  understanding.  She  felt  infi 
nitely  older  than  this  tall,  honest-eyed  boy  in  his  stained  uni 
form — older  and  more  sophisticated.  But  if  she  had  under- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 347 

stood  the  Marion  Hayden  situation,  she  was  totally  at  a  loss 
as  to  Anna. 

"But  I  don't  understand !"  she  cried.  "How  could  you  make 
love  to  her  if  you  didn't  love  her?" 

"I  don't  know.  Fellows  do  those  things.  It's  just  mischief 
— some  sort  of  a  devil  in  them,  I  suppose." 

When  he  reached  the  beating  and  Anna's  flight,  however, 
she  understood  a  little  better. 

"Of  course  you  had  to  stand  by  her/'  she  agreed. 

"You  haven't  heard  it  all,"  he  said  quietly.  "When  I'm 
through,  if  you  get  up  and  leave  me,  I'll  understand,  Delight, 
and  I  won't  blame  you." 

He  told  her  the  rest  of  the  story  in  a  voice  strained  with 
anxiety.  It  was  as  though  he  had  come  to  a  tribunal  for  judg 
ment.  He  spared  her  nothing,  the  dinner  at  the  road-house 
with  Rudolph  at  the  window,  his  visit  to  Anna's  room,  and  her 
subsequent  disappearance. 

"She  told  the  Department  of  Justice  people  that  Rudolph 
found  her  that  night,  and  took  her  home.  She  was  a  prisoner 
then,  poor  little  kid.  But  she  overheard  her  father  and  Ru 
dolph  plotting  to  blow  up  the  mill.  That's  where  I  came  in, 
Delight.  He  was  crazy  at  me.  He  was  a  German,  of  course, 
and  he  might  have  done  it  anyhow.  But  Rudolph  told  him  a 
lot  of  lies  about  me,  and — he  did  it.  When  I  think  about  it 
all,  and  about  Joey,  I'm  crazy." 

She  slipped  her  hand  over  his. 

"Of  course  they  would  have  done  it  anyhow/'  she  said 
softly. 

"You  aren't  going  to  get  up  and  go  away?" 

"Why  should  I?"  she  asked.  "I  only  feel— oh,  Graham, 
how  wretched  you  must  have  been." 

Something  in  her  voice  made  him  sit  up  straighter.  He 
knew  now  that  it  had  always  been  Delight,  always.  Only  she 
had  been  too  good  for  him.  She  had  set  a  standard  he  had 
not  hoped  to  reach.  But  now  things  were  different.  He 
hadn't  amounted  to  much  in  other  things,  but  he  was  a  soldier 


348  DANGEROUS  DAYS 


now.  He  meant  to  be  a  mighty  good  soldier.  And  when  he 
got  his  commission 

"You  won't  mind,  then,  if  I  come  in  to  see  you  now  and 
then?" 

"Mind?    Why,  Graham!'' 

"And  you  don't  think  I'm  quite  hopeless,  do  you?" 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  she  answered  bravely : 

"I  believe  in  you  every  minute.  But  then  I  think  I  always 
have." 

"Like  fun  you  have!"  But  although  he  laughed,  it  was  a 
shaky  laugh.  Suddenly  he  stood  up  and  shook  himself.  He 
felt  young  and  strong  and  extremely  happy.  There  had  been  a 
bad  time,  but  it  was  behind  him  now.  Ahead  there  lay  high 
adventure,  and  here,  beside  him  in  the  dusk,  was  the  girl  of 
his  heart.  She  believed  in  him.  Work  to  do  and  a  woman 
who  believed  in  a  fellow — that  was  life. 

"Aren't  you  cold?"  he  asked,  and  drew  the  gaudy  sweater 
tenderly  around  her  shoulders. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

fact  that  Audrey  Valentine,  conspicuous  member  o£ 
a  conspicuous  social  group  that  she  was,  had  been  work 
ing  in  the  machine-shop  of  the  Spencer  munitions  works  at  the 
time  of  the  explosion  was  in  itself  sufficient  to  rouse  the  great 
est  interest.  When  a  young  reporter,  gathering  human-inter 
est  stories  about  the  event  from  the  pitiful  wreckage  in  the 
hospitals,  happened  on  Clare  Gould,  he  got  a  feature-story  for 
the  Sunday  edition  that  made  Audrey's  own  world,  reading  it 
in  bed  or  over  its  exquisite  breakfast-tables,  gasp  with  amaze 
ment. 

For,  following  up  Clare's  story,  he  found  that  Audrey  had 
done  much  more  than  run  toward  the  telephone.  She  had 
reached  it,  had  found  the  operator  gone,  and  had  succeeded, 
before  the  roof  fell  in  on  her,  in  calling  the  fire  department 
and  in  sending  in  a  general  alarm  to  all  the  hospitals. 

The  reporter  found  the  night  operator  who  had  received  the 
message.  He  got  a  photograph  of  her,  too,  and,  from  the 
society  file,  an  old  one  of  Audrey,  very  delicate  and  audacious, 
and  not  greatly  resembling  the  young  woman  who  lay  in  her 
bed  and  read  the  article  aloud,  between  dismay  and  laughter, 
to  old  Terry  Mackenzie. 

"Good  heavens,  Terry/'  she  said.  "Listen!  1  had  heard 
the  explosion,  but  did  not  of  course  know  what  it  was.  And 
then  I  got  a  signal,  and  it  was  the  Spencer  plant.  A  sweet 
Southern  voice  said,  very  calmly,  * 'Operator,  this  is  important. 
Listen  carefully.  There  has  been  an  explosion  at  the  Spencer 
plant  and  the  ruins  are  on  fire.  There  will  probably  be  more 
explosions  in  a  minute.  Send  in  a  general  fire-alarm,  and  then 
get  all  the  ambulances  and  doctors "  Then  there  was  an 
other  explosion,  and  their  lines  went  out  of  commission.  I 
am  glad  she  is  not  dead.  She  certainly  had  her  nerve.' " 

349 


350 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Fame  at  last,  Audrey!"  said  old  Terry,  very  gently. 

"It's  shameless !"  But  she  was  a  little  pleased,  nevertheless. 
Not  at  the  publicity.  That  was  familiar  enough.  But  that, 
when  her  big  moment  came,  she  had  met  it  squarely. 

Terry  was  striding  about  the  room.  His  visits  were  always 
rather  cyclonic.  He  moved  from  chair  to  chair,  leaving  about 
each  one  an  encircling  ring  of  cigaret  ashes,  and  carefully 
inspecting  each  new  vase  of  flowers.  He  stopped  in  front  of 
a  basket  of  exquisite  small  orchids. 

"Who  sent  this?"  he  demanded. 

"Rodney  Page.     Doesn't  it  look  like  him?" 

He  turned  and  stared  at  her. 

"What's  come  over  Clayton  Spencer?    Is  he  blind?" 

"Blind?" 

"About  Rodney.  He's  head  over  heels  in  love  with  Natalie 
Spencer,  God  alone  knows  why." 

"I  daresay  it  isn't  serious.  He  is  always  in  love  with  some 
body." 

"There's  a  good  bit  of  talk.  I  don't  give  a  hang  for  either 
of  them,  but  I'm  fond  of  Clayton.  So  are  you.  Natalie's  out 
in  the  country  now,  and  Rodney  is  there  every  week-end.  It's 
a  scandal,  that's  all.  As  for  Natalie  herself,  she  ought  to  be 
interned  as  a  dangerous  pacifist.  She's  a  martyr,  in  her  own 
eyes.  Thank  heaven  there  aren't  many  like  her." 

Audrey  leaned  back  against  her  pillows. 

"I  wonder,  Terry,"  she  said,  "if  you  haven't  shown  me 
what  to  do  next.  I  might  be  able  to  reach  some  of  the  women 
like  Natalie.  There  are  some  of  them,  and  they've  got  to 
learn  that  if  they  don't  stand  behind  the  men,  we're  lost." 

"Fine!"  he  agreed.  "Get  'em  to  knit  less  and  write  more 
letters,  cheerful  letters.  Tell  'em  to  remember  that  by  the  time 
their  man  gets  the  letter  the  baby's  tooth  will  be  through. 
There  are  a  good  many  men  in  the  army-camps  to-day  vica 
riously  cutting  teeth.  Get  after  'em,  Audrey !  A  worried  man 
is  a  poor  soldier." 

After  he  had  gone,  she  had  the  nurse  bring  her  paper  and 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 351 

pencil,  and  she  wrote,  rather  incoherently,  it  is  true,  her  first 
appeal  to  the  women  of  the  country.  It  was  effective,  too. 
Audrey  was  an  effective  person.  When  Clayton  came  for  his 
daily  visit  she  had  just  finished  it,  and  was  reading  it  over 
with  considerable  complacency. 

"I've  become  an  author,  Clay,"  she  said,  "I  think  myself  I'm 
terribly  good  at  it.  May  I  read  it  to  you?" 

He  listened  gravely,  but  with  a  little  flicker  of  amusement 
in  his  eyes.  How  like  her  it  was,  to  refuse  to  allow  herself 
even  time  to  get  entirely  well !  But  when  she  finished  he  was 
thoughtful.  She  had  called  it  "Slacker  Women."  That  was 
what  Natalie  was;  he  had  never  put  it  into  words  before. 
Natalie  was  a  slacker. 

He  had  never  discussed  Natalie's  attitude  toward  the  war 
with  Audrey.  He  rather  thought  she  was  entirely  ignorant  of 
it.  But  her  little  article,  glowing  with  patriotism,  frank,  sim 
ple,  and  convincing,  might  have  been  written  to  Natalie  her 
self. 

"It  is  very  fine,"  he  said.  "I  rather  think  you  have  found 
yourself  at  last.  There  aren't  a  lot  of  such  women,  and  I 
daresay  they  will  be  fewer  all  the  time.  But  they  exist,  of 
course." 

She  glowed  under  his  approval. 

There  was,  in  all  their  meetings,  a  sub-current  of  sadness, 
that  they  must  be  so  brief,  that  before  long  they  must  end 
altogether,  that  they  could  not  put  into  words  the  things  that 
were  in  their  eyes  and  their  hearts.  After  that  first  hour  of 
her  return  to  consciousness  there  had  been  no  expressed  ten 
derness  between  them.  The  nurse  sat  in  the  room,  eternally 
knitting,  and  Clayton  sat  near  Audrey,  or  read  to  her,  or,  like 
Terry,  wandered  about  the  room.  But  now  and  then  Audrey, 
enthroned  like  a  princess  on  her  pillows,  would  find  his  eyes 
on  her,  and  such  a  hungry  look  in  them  that  she  would  clench 
her  hands.  And  after  such  times  she  always  said : 

"Now,  tell  me  about  the  mill."  Or  about  Washington,  where 
he  was  being  summoned  with  increasing  frequency.  Or  about 


352 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Graham.  Anything  to  take  that  look  out  of  his  eyes.  He  told 
her  all  his  plans ;  he  even  brought  the  blue-prints  of  the  new 
plant  and  spread  them  out  on  the  bed.  He  was  dreaming  a 
great  dream  those  days,  and  Audrey  knew  it.  He  was  build 
ing  again,  this  time  not  for  himself,  but  for  the  nation. 

After  he  had  gone,  looking  boyish  and  reluctant,  she  would 
lie  for  a  little  while  watching  the  door.  Perhaps  he  had  for 
gotten  something,  and  would  come  back!  One  day  he  did, 
and  was  surprised  to  find  her  suddenly  in  tears. 

"You  came  back!"  she  said  half  hysterically.  "You  came 
back." 

That  was  the  only  time  in  all  those  weeks  that  he  kissed  her. 
The  nurse  had  gone  out,  and  suddenly  he  caught  her  in  his 
arms  and  held  her  to  him.  He  put  her  back  very  gently,  and 
she  saw  that  he  was  pale. 

"I  think  I'd  better  go  now,  and  not  come  back,"  he  said. 

And  for  two  long  and  endless  days  he  did  not  come.  Then 
on  the  third  he  came,  very  stiff  and  formal,  and  with  himself 
well  in  hand.  Audrey,  leaning  back  and  watching  him,  felt 
what  a  boy  he  was  after  all,  so  determined  to  do  the  right 
thing,  so  obvious  with  his  blue-prints,  and  so  self-conscious. 

In  June  she  left  the  hospital  and  went  to  the  country.  She 
had  already  made  a  little  market  for  her  work,  and  she  wanted 
to  carry  it  on.  By  that  time,  too,  she  knew  that  the  break 
must  come  between  Clayton  and  herself  if  it  came  at  all. 

"No  letters,  no  anything,  Clay,"  she  said,  and  he  acquiesced 
quietly.  But  the  night  she  left,  the  butler,  coming  down 
stairs  to  investigate  a  suspicious  sound,  found  him  restlessly 
pacing  the  library  floor. 

In  August  he  went  abroad,  and  some  time  about  the  middle 
of  the  month  while  he  was  in  London,  he  received  a  cable 
from  Graham.  He  had  been  commissioned  a  first  lieutenant 
in  the  infantry.  Clayton  had  been  seeing  war  at  first  hand 
then,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  was  fairly  terrified.  On  that 
first  of  August  the  Germans  had  used  liquid  fire  for  the  first 
time,  thus  adding  a  new  horror.  Men  in  the  trenches  swept 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 353 

by  it  had  been  practically  annihilated.  Attacks  against  it  were 
practically  suicide.  Already  the  year  had  seen  the  last  of 
Kitchener's  army  practically  destroyed,  and  the  British  comb 
ing  the  country  for  new  divisions. 

In  the  deadly  give  and  take  of  that  summer,  where  gains 
and  losses  were  measured  by  yards,  the  advantage  was  stead 
ily  on  the  German  side,  and  it  would  be  a  year  before  the  small 
force  of  American  regulars  could  be  augmented  to  any  degree 
by  the  great  new  army.  It  was  the  darkest  hour. 

Following  on  the  heels  of  Graham's  cable  came  a  hysterical 
one  from  Natalie. 

"Graham  probably  ordered  abroad.  Implore  you  use  influ 
ence  with  Washington." 

He  resorted  to  his  old  remedy  when  he  was  in  trouble. 
He  walked  the  streets.  He  tried  to  allow  for  Natalie's  lack 
of  exaltation  by  the  nature  of  her  life.  If  she  could  have  seen 
what  he  had  seen,  surely  she  would  have  felt,  as  he  did,  that 
no  sacrifice  could  be  too  great  to  end  this  cancer  of  the  world. 
But  deep  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  Natalie  was — Natalie. 
Nothing  would  change  her. 

As  it  happened,  he  passed  Graham  on  the  Atlantic.  There 
was  a  letter  for  him  at  the  office,  a  boyish,  exultant  letter : 

"Dad  dear,  I'm  married !"  it  began.  "Married  and  off  for 
France.  It  is  Delight,  of  course.  It  always  was  Delight, 
altho  I  know  that  sounds  queer.  And  now  I'm  off  to  kill  a 
Hun  or  two.  More  than  that,  I  hope.  I  want  two  Germans 
for  every  poor  devil  they  got  at  the  works.  That's  the  mini 
mum.  The  maximum ! 

''You'll  look  after  Delight,  I  know.  She  has  been  perfectly 
bully,  but  it's  hard  on  her.  We  were  married  two  days  ago, 
and  already  I  feel  as  though  I've  always  been  married.  She's 
going  on  with  the  canteen  work,  and  I  shall  try  not  to  be 
jealous.  She's  popular!  And  if  you'd  seen  the  General  when 
we  were  married  you'd  have  thought  he  was  losing  a  daughter. 

"I  wired  Mother,  but  she  was  too  cut  up  about  my  leaving 
to  come.  I  wish  she  had,  for  it  was  a  strange  sort  of  wedding. 


354 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

The  division  was  about  to  move,  and  at  the  last  minute  five 
girls  turned  up  to  be  married  to  fellows  who  were  leaving. 
They  came  from  all  over,  and  believe  me  there  was  some  ex 
citement.  All  day  the  General  and  Chaplain  Haverford  were 
fussing  about  licenses,  and  those  girls  sat  around  and  waited, 
and  looked  droopy  but  sort  of  happy — you  know  what  I  mean. 

"It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  before  everything  was 
ready.  Delight  had  trimmed  up  the  little  church  which  is  in 
the  camp  and  has  a  flag  over  the  altar.  Then  we  had  a  multi 
ple  wedding.  Honestly !  The  organ  played  a  squeaky  wedding 
march,  and  we  went  in,  six  couples.  The  church  was  full  of 
soldiers,  and — I  don't  mind  saying  I  was  ready  to  shed  tears. 

"We  lined  up,  and  Doctor  Haverford  married  us.  Delight 
says  she  is  sure  we  are  only  one-sixth  married.  Quiet !  You 
never  heard  such  quiet — except  for  the  General  blowing  his 
nose.  I  think  myself  he  was  weeping,  and  there  was  a  rumor 
about  the  camp  to  that  effect.  You  know — the  flag  over  the 
altar,  and  all  that.  I  tell  you  it  made  a  fellow  think. 

"Well,  I'm  going  over  now.  Quick  work,  isn't  it?  And  to 
think  that  a  few  months  ago  I  was  hanging  around  the  club 
and  generally  making  a  mess  of  life.  That's  all  over  now, 
thank  God.  I'm  going  to  make  good.  Try  to  buck  mother  up. 
It's  pretty  hard  for  her.  It's  hard  for  all  women,  just  wait 
ing.  And  while  I  know  I'm  coming  back,  safe  and  sound, 
I'd  like  to  feel  that  you  are  going  to  keep  an  eye  on  Delight. 
She's  the  most  important  thing  in  the  world  to  me  now." 

Then  scrawled  in  a  corner  he  had  added, 

"You've  been  mighty  fine  with  me  always,  dad.  I  was  a 
good  bit  of  a  pup  last  winter.  If  I  make  anything  of  myself 
at  all,  it  will  be  because  I  want  to  be  like  you." 

Clayton  sat  for  a  long  time  with  the  letter  in  his  hand.  The 
happiness  and  hope  that  fairly  radiated  from  it  cheered  and 
warmed  him.  He  was  nearly  happy.  And  it  came  to  him 
then  that,  while  every  man  had  the  right  to  happiness,  only 
those  achieved  it  who  craved  it  for  others,  and  having  craved 
it  for  them,  at  last  saw  the  realization  of  their  longing. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

NATALIE  had  had  a  dull  Spring.  With  Graham's  depar 
ture  for  camp  she  moved  to  the  country  house,  carrying 
with  her  vast  amounts  of  luggage,  the  innumerable  things,  large 
and  small,  which  were  necessary  for  her  comfort.  The  in 
stalling  of  herself  in  her  new  and  luxurious  rooms  gave  her 
occupation  for  several  days.  She  liked  her  new  environment. 
She  liked  herself  in  it.  The  rose-colored  taffetas  of  her  bed 
room  brought  out  the  delicacy  of  her  skin.  The  hangings  of 
her  bed,  small  and  draped,  reflected  a  faint  color  into  her 
face,  and  the  morning  inspection  with  a  hand-mirror,  which 
always  followed  her  coffee,  showed  her  at  her  best  instead  of 
her  worst. 

Of  her  dressing-room  she  was  not  so  sure.  It's  ivory- 
paneled  walls,  behind  whose  sliding  panels  were  hung  her 
gowns,  her  silk  and  satin  chiffon  negligees,  her  wraps  and 
summer  furs — all  the  vast  paraphernalia  with  which  she 
armed  herself,  as  a  knight  with  armor — the  walls  seemed  cold. 
She  hated  old-blue,  but  old-blue  Rodney  had  insisted  upon. 

He  had  held  a  bit  of  the  taffeta  to  her  cheek. 

"It  is  delicious,  Natalie,"  he  said.  ''It  makes  your  eyes  as 
blue  as  the  sea." 

"Always  a  decorator!"  she  had  replied,  smiling. 

And,  standing  in  her  blue  room,  the  first  day  of  her  arrival, 
and  frowning  at  her  reflection,  she  remembered  his  reply. 

"Because  I  have  no  right,  with  you,  to  be  anything  else." 
He  had  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  had  absently  folded  and 
refolded  the  bit  of  blue  silk.  Suddenly  he  said,  "What  do 
you  think  I  am  going  to  do,  now  that  our  work  together  is 
done?  Have  you  ever  thought  about  that,  Natalie?" 

"You  are  coming  often  to  enjoy  your  handiwork?" 

355 


356 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

He  had  made  an  impulsive  gesture. 

"I'm  not  coming.  I've  been  seeing  too  much  of  you  as  it 
is.  If  you  want  the  truth,  I'm  just  wretchedly  unhappy, 
Natalie.  You  know  I'm  in  love  with  you,  don't  you?" 

"I  believe  you  think  you  are." 

"Don't  laugh."  He  almost  snarled.  "I  may  laugh  at  my 
idiocy,  but  you  haven't  any  right  to.  I  know  I'm  ridiculous. 
I've  known  it  for  months.  But  it's  pretty  serious  for  me." 

He  had  meant  it.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  that.  It  is 
the  curious  quality  of  very  selfish  women  that  they  inspire 
a  certain  sort  of  love.  They  are  likely  to  be  loved  often,  even 
tho  the  devotion  they  inspire  is  neither  deep  nor  lasting.  Big 
and  single-hearted  women  are  loved  by  one  man,  and  that 
forever. 

Natalie  had  not  laughed,  but  she  had  done  what  was  almost 
as  bad.  She  had  patted  him  on  the  arm. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,"  she  said,  gently.  "You  are  all  I  have 
now,  Rodney,  and  I  don't  want  to  lose  you.  I'm  suffering 
horribly  these  days.  You're  my  greatest  comfort." 

"I've  heard  you  say  that  of  a  chair." 

"As  for  loving  me,  you  must  not  talk  like  that.  Under  the 
circumstances,  it's  indelicate." 

"Oh !"  he  had  said,  and  looked  at  her  quickly.  "I  can  love 
you,  but  it's  indelicate  to  tell  you  about  it !" 

"I  am  married,  Rodney." 

"Good  God,  do  you  think  I  ever  forget  it  ?" 

There  was  a  real  change  in  their  relationship,  but  neither 
of  them  understood  it.  The  change  was  that  Rodney  was  no 
longer  playing.  Little  by  little  he  had  dropped  his  artistic 
posing  for  her  benefit,  his  cynical  cleverness,  his  adroit  simu 
lation  of  passion.  He  no  longer  dramatized  himself,  because 
rather  often  he  forgot  himself  entirely.  His  passion  had 
ceased  to  be  spurious,  and  it  was  none  the  less  real  because  he 
loved  not  a  real  woman,  but  one  of  his  own  artistic  creation. 

He  saw  in  Natalie  a  misunderstood  and  suffering  woman, 
bearing  the  burdens  he  knew  of  with  dignity  and  a  certain 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  357 

beauty.  And  behind  her  slightly  theatrical  silences  he  guessed 
at  other  griefs,  nobly  borne  and  only  gently  intimated.  He 
developed,  after  a  time,  a  certain  suspicion  of  Clayton,  not 
of  his  conduct  but  of  his  character.  These  big  men  were 
often  hard.  It  was  that  quality  which  made  them  successful. 
They  married  tender,  gentle  girls,  and  then  repressed  and 
trampled  on  them. 

Natalie  became,  in  his  mind,  a  crushed  and  broken  thing, 
infinitely  lonely  and  pathetic.  And,  without  in  the  least  un 
derstanding,  Natalie  instinctively  knew  it  was  when  she  was 
wistful  and  dependent  that  he  found  her  most  attractive,  and 
became  wistful  and  dependent  to  a  point  that  imposed  even  on 
herself. 

"I've  been  very  selfish  with  you,  Rodney,  dear,"  she  said, 
lifting  sad  eyes  to  his.  "I  am  going  to  be  better.  You  must 
come  often  this  summer,  and  I'll  have  some  nice  girls  for  you 
to  play  with." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  stiffly. 

"We'll  have  to  be  as  gay  as  we  can,"  she  sighed.  "I'm  just 
a  little  dreary  these  days,  you  know." 

It  was  rather  absurd  that  they  were  in  a  shop,  and  that  the 
clerk  should  return  just  then  with  curtain  cords,  and  that  the 
discussion  of  certain  shades  of  yellow  made  an  anti-climax 
to  it  all.  But  in  the  car,  later,  he  turned  to  her,  roughly. 

"You  needn't  ask  any  girls  for  me,"  he  said.  "I  only  want 
one  woman,  and  if  I  can't  have  her  I  don't  want  any  one." 

At  first  the  very  fact  that  he  could  not  have  her  had  been, 
unconsciously,  the  secret  of  her  attraction.  She  was  a  perfect 
thing,  and  unattainable.  He  could  sigh  for  her  with  longing 
and  perfect  safety.  But  as  time  went  on,  with  that  incapacity 
of  any  human  emotion  to  stand  still,  but  either  to  go  on  or 
to  go  back,  his  passion  took  on  a  more  human  and  less  poetic 
aspect.  She  satisfied  him  less,  and  he  wanted  more. 

For  one  thing,  he  dreamed  that  strange  dream  of  mankind, 
of  making  ice  burn,  of  turning  snow  to  fire.  The  old  chimera 
of  turning  the  cold  woman  to  warmth  through  his  own  pas- 


358 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

sion  began  to  obsess  him.  Sometimes  he  watched  Natalie,  and 
had  strange  fancies.  He  saw  her  lit  from  within  by  a  fire, 
which  was  not  the  reflection  of  his,  but  was  recklessly  her 
own.  How  wonderful  she  would  be,  he  thought.  And  at 
those  times  he  had  wild  visions  of  going  away  with  her  into 
some  beautiful  wilderness  and  there  teaching  her  what  she 
had  missed  in  life. 

But  altho  now  he  always  wanted  her,  he  was  not  always 
thinking  of  a  wilderness.  It  was  in  his  own  world  that  he 
wanted  her,  to  fit  beautifully  into  his  house,  to  move,  exqui 
sitely  dressed,  through  ball-rooms  beside  him.  He  wanted  her, 
at  those  times,  as  the  most  perfect  of  all  his  treasures.  He 
was  still  a  collector! 

The  summer  only  served  to  increase  his  passion.  During 
the  long  hot  days,  when  Clayton  was  abroad  or  in  Washington, 
or  working  late  at  night,  as  he  frequently  did  how,  they  were 
much  together.  Natalie'-s  plans  for  gayety  had  failed  dismally. 
The  city  and  the  country  houses  near  were  entirely  lack 
ing  in  men.  She  found  it  a  real  grievance. 

"I  don't  know  what  we  are  coming  to,"  she  complained. 
"The  country  club  is  like  a  girl's  boarding-school..  I  wish  to 
heaven  the  war  was  over,  and  things  were  sensible  again." 

So,  during  his  week-end  visits,  they  spent  most  of  the  time 
together.  There  were  always  girls  there,  and  now  and  then 
a  few  men,  who  always  explained  immediately  that  they  had 
been  turned  down  for  the  service,  or  were  going  in  the  fall. 

"I'm  sure  somebody  has  to  stay  home  and  attend  to  things 
here/'  she  said  to  him  one  August  night.  "But  even  when  they 
are  in  America,  they  are  rushing  about,  pretending  to  do 
things.  One  would  think  to  see  Clayton  that  he  is  the  entire 
government.  It's  absurd." 

"I  wish  I  could  go,"  he  said  unexpectedly. 

"Don't  be  idiotic.    You're  much  too  old." 

"Not  as  old  as  Clay." 

"Oh,  Clay!  He's  in  a  class  by  himself."  She  laughed 
lightly. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 359 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"In  France,  I  think.  Probably  telling  them  how  to  run  the 
war." 

"When  is  he  coming  back?" 

"I  don't  know.  What  do  you  mean  by  wishing  you  could 
go?" 

"Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  truth  ?" 

"Not  if  it's  disagreeable." 

"Well,  I  will,  and  it's  not  very  agreeable.  I  can't  keep  this 
up,  Natalie.  I  can't  keep  on  coming  here,  being  in  Clayton's 
house,  and  eating  his  bread,  while  I'm  in  love  with  his  wife. 
It  isn't  decent." 

He  flung  away  his  cigaret,  and  bent  forward. 

"Don't  you  see  that?"  he  asked  gently.  "Not  while  he  is 
working  for  the  country,  and  Graham  is  abroad." 

"I  donrt  see  why  war  needs  to  deprive  me  of  my  friends. 
I've  lost  everything  else." 

His  morals  were  matters  of  his  private  life,  and  they  had 
been  neither  better  nor  worse  than  the  average.  But  he  had 
breeding  and  a  sure  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  and  this 
present  week-end  visit,  with  the  ostentatious  care  the  younger 
crowd  took  to  allow  him  time  to  see  Natalie  alone,  was  gal 
ling  to  him.  It  put  him  in  a  false  position ;  what  hurt  more, 
perhaps,  in  an  unfavorable  light.  The  war  had  changed  stand 
ards,  too.  Men  were  being  measured,  especially  by  women, 
and  those  who  failed  to  measure  up  were  being  eliminated 
with  cruel  swiftness,  especially  the  men  who  stayed  at  home. 

With  all  this,  too,  there  was  a  growing  admiration  for  Clay 
ton  Spencer  in  their  small  circle.  His  name  had  been  men 
tioned  in  connection  with  an  important  position  in  Washing 
ton.  In  the  clubs  there  was  considerable  praise  and  some 
envy.  And  Rodney  knew  that  his  affair  with  Natalie  was  the 
subject  of  much  invidious  comment. 

"Do  you  love  him?"  he  asked,  suddenly. 

"I — why,  of  course  I  do." 

"Do  you  mean  that  ?" 


360 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  our  friendship/' 

"Oh — friendship !  You  know  how  I  feel,  and  yet  you  go  on, 
bringing  up  that  silly  word.  If  you  love  him,  you  don't  love 
me,  and  yet  you've  let  me  hang  around  all  these  months,  know 
ing  I  am  mad  about  you.  You  don't  play  the  game,  Natalie." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say?" 

"If  you  don't  love  Clayton,  why  don't  you  tell  him  so? 
He's  honest  enough.  And  I  miss  my  guess  if  he  wants  a 
wife  who — cares  for  somebody  else." 

She  sat  in  the  dusk,  thinking,  and  he  watched  her.  She 
looked  very  lovely  in  the  setting  which  he  himself  had  designed 
for  her.  She  hated  change ;  she  loathed  trouble,  of  any  sort. 
And  she  was,  those  days,  just  a  little  afraid  of  that  strange, 
quiet  Clayton  who  seemed  eternally  engrossed  in  war  and  the 
things  of  war.  She  glanced  about,  at  the  white  trellises  that 
gleamed  in  the  garden,  at  the  silvery  fleur  de  lis  which  was 
the  fountain,  at  all  the  lovely  things  with  which  Clayton's 
wealth  had  allowed  her  to  surround  herself.  And  suddenly 
she  knew  she  could  not  give  them  up. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  have  to  spoil  everything,"  she  said 
fretfully.  "It  had  been  so  perfect.  Of  course  I'm  not  going 
to  say  anything  to  Clay.  He  has  enough  to  worry  him  now," 
she  added,  virtuously. 

Suddenly  Rodney  stooped  and  kissed  her,  almost  savagely. 

"Then  I'm  going,"  he  said.  And  to  her  great  surprise  he 
went. 

Alone  in  his  room  up-stairs  Rodney  had,  in  his  anger,  a 
glimpse  of  insight.  He  saw  her,  her  life  filled  with  small 
emotions,  lacking  the  courage  for  big  ones.  He  saw  her,  like 
a  child,  clutching  one  piece  of  cake  and  holding  out  a  hand 
for  another.  He  saw  her,  taking  always,  giving  never. 

"She's  not  worth  it,"  he  muttered. 

On  the  way  to  the  station  he  reflected  bitterly  over  the  past 
year.  He  did  not  blame  her  so  much  as  he  blamed  himself. 
He  had  been  playing  a  game,  an  attractive  game.  During  the 
first  months  of  it  his  interest  in  Natalie  had  been  subordinate 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  361 

-to  his  interest  in  her  house.  He  had  been  creating  a  beautiful 
thing,  arid  he  had  had  a  very  real  joy  in  it.  But  lately  he 
knew  that  his  work  on  the  house  had  been  that  he  might  build 
a  background  for  Natalie.  He  had  put  into  it  the  best  of  his 
ability,  and  she  was  not  worth  it. 

For  some  days  he  neither  wrote  nor  called  her  up.  He  was 
not  happy,  but  he  had  a  sense  of  relief.  He  held  his  head 
a  trifle  higher,  was  his  own  man  again,  and  he  began  to  make 
tentative  inquiries  as  to  whether  he  could  be  useful  in  the 
national  emergency  or  not.  He  was  half-hearted  at  first,  but 
he  found  out  something.  The  mere  fact  that  he  wanted  to 
work  in  some  capacity  brought  back  some  of  his  old  friends. 
They  had  seemed  to  drop  away,  before,  but  they  came  back 
heartily  and  with  hands  out. 

"Work?"  said  Terry  Mackenzie,  at  the  club  one  day,  look 
ing  up  from  the  billiard  table,  where  he  was  knocking  balls 
about,  rather  at  haphazard.  "Why,  of  course  you  can  work. 
Wliat  about  these  new  cantonments  we're  building  all  over 
the  country  ?  You  ought  to  be  useful  there.  They  don't  want 
'em  pretty,  tho."  And  Terry  had  laughed.  But  he  put  down 
his  cue  and  took  Rodney  by  the  arm. 

"Let's  ask  Nolan  about  it,"  he  said.  "He's  in  the  reading- 
room,  tearing  the  British  strategy  to  pieces.  He  knows  every 
thing  these  days,  from  the  draft  law  to  the  month's  shipping 
losses.  Come  along." 

It  was  from  Nolan,  however,  that  Rodney  first  realized  how 
seriously  Clayton's  friends  were  taking  his  affair  with  Natalie, 
and  that  not  at  first  from  anything  he  said.  It  was  an  indefin 
able  aloofness  of  manner,  a  hostility  of  tone.  Nolan  never 
troubled  himself  to  be  agreeable  unless  it  suited  his  inclina 
tion,  and  apparently  Terry  found  nothing  unusual  in  his  atti 
tude.  But  Rodney  did. 

"Something  he  could  build?"  said  Nolan,  repeating  Terry's 
question.  "How  do  I  know?  There's  a  lot  of  building  going 
on,  Page,  but  it's  not  exactly  your  sort."  And  there  was  a 
.faint  note  of  contempt  in  his  voice. 


362 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Who  would  be  the  man  to  see  in  Washington?"  Rodney 
inquired. 

"I'll  look  it  up  and  let  you  know.  You  might  call  me  up 
to-morrow." 

Old  Terry,  having  got  them  together,  went  back  to  his  bil 
liards  and  left  them.  Nolan  sat  down  and  picked  up  his 
paper,  with  an  air  of  ending  the  interview.  But  he  put  it 
down  again  as  Rodney  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"Page!" 

"Yes?" 

"D'you  mind  having  a  few  minutes'  talk?" 

Rodney  braced  himself. 

"Not  at  all." 

But  Nolan  was  slow  to  begin.  He  sat,  newspaper  on  his 
knee,  his  deep-set  eyes  thoughtful.  When  he  began  it  was 
slowly. 

"I  am  one  of  Clay  Spencer's  oldest  friends,"  he  said.  "He's 
a  white  man,  the  whitest  man  I  know.  Naturally,  anything 
that  touches  him  touches  me,  in  a  way." 

"Well?" 

"The  name  stands  for  a  good  bit,  too.  His  father  and  his 
grandfather  were  the  same  sort.  It's  not  often  in  this  town 
that  we  have  three  generations  without  a  breath  of  scandal 
against  them." 

Rodney  flushed  angrily. 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  me?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  want  to  know.  I  simply  wanted 
Ito  tell  you  that  there  are  a  good  many  of  us  who  take  a  pe 
culiar  pride  in  Clayton  Spencer,  and  who  resent  anything 
that  reflects  on  a  name  we  respect  rather  highly." 

"That  sounds  like  a  threat." 

"Not  at  all.  I  was  merely  calling  your  attention  to  some 
thing  I  thought  perhaps  you  had  forgotten."  Then  he  got 
up,  and  his  tone  changed,  became  brisk,  almost  friendly. 
"Now,  about  this  building  thing.  If  you're  in  earnest  I  think 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 363 

it  can  be  managed.  You  won't  get  any  money  to  speak  of, 
you  know." 

"I  don't  want  any  money,"  sullenly. 

"Fine.  You'll  probably  have  to  go  west  somewhere,  and 
you'll  be  set  down  in  the  center  of  a  hundred  corn-fields  and 
told  to  make  them  overnight  into  a  temporary  town.  I  sup 
pose  you've  thought  of  all  that?" 

"I'll  go  wherever  I'm  sent." 

"Come  along  to  the  telephone,  then." 

Rodney  hesitated.  He  felt  cheap  and  despicable,  and  his 
anger  was  still  hot.  They  wanted  to  get  him  out  of  town. 
He  saw  that.  They  took  little  enough  trouble  to  hide  it.  Well, 
he  would  go.  He  wanted  to  go  anyhow,  and  he  would  show 
them  something,  too,  if  he  got  a  chance.  He  would  show  them 
that  he  was  as  much  a  man  as  Clayton  Spencer.  He  eyed 
Nolan's  insolently  slouching  figure  with  furious  eyes.  Put 
he  followed  him. 

Had  he  secured  an  immediate  appointment  things  might  have 
been  different  for  him.  Like  Chris  Valentine,  he  had  had 
one  decent  impulse,  and  like  Chris  too,  there  was  a  woman 
behind  it.  But  Chris  had  been  able  to  act  on  his  impulse  at 
once,  and  Rodney  was  compelled  to  wait  while  the  mills  of 
the  government  ground  slowly. 

Then,  on  the  fourteenth  of  August,  Natalie  telegraphed  him : 

"Have  had  bad  news  about  Graham.     Can  you  come?" 

He  thought  of  Graham  ill,  possibly  dead,  and  he  took  the 
next  train,  late  in  the  evening.  It  was  mid-week  and  Natalie 
was  alone.  He  had  thought  of  that  possibility  in  the  train 
and  he  was  miserably  uncomfortable,  with  all  his  joy  at  the 
prospect  of  seeing  her  again.  He  felt  that  the  emergency  must 
be  his  justification.  Clayton  was  still  abroad,  and  even  his 
most  captious  critics  would  admit  that  Natalie  should  have 
a  friend  by  if  she  were  in  trouble.  Visions  of  Graham 
wounded  filled  his  mind.  He  was  anxious,  restless  and  in  a 
state  of  the  highest  nervous  tension. 

And  there  was  no  real  emergency. 


364 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

He  found  Natalie  in  the  drawing-room,  pacing  the  floor. 
She  was  still  in  her  morning  dress,  and  her  eyes  were  red  and 
swollen.  She  gave  him  both  her  hands,  and  he  was  Surprised 
to  find  them  cold  as  ice. 

"I  knew  you  would  come,"  she  said.  "I  am  so  alone,  so 
terrified/' 

He  could  hardly  articulate. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Graham  has  been  ordered  abroad." 

He  stood  still,  staring  at  her,  and  then  he  dropped  her 
hands. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked,  dully. 

"No." 

"Good  heavens,  Natalie!  Tell  me.  I've  been  frantic  with 
anxiety  about  you." 

"He  was  married  to-night  to  Delight  Haverford." 

And  still  he  stared  at  her. 

"Then  he's  not  hurt,  or  ill  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  he  was.  Good  gracious,  Rodney,  isn't  that 
bad  enough?" 

"But — what  did  you  expect  ?  He  would  have  to  go  abroad 
some  time.  You  knew  that.  I'm  sorry,  but — why  in  God's 
name  didn't  you  say  in  your  wire  what  the  trouble  was?" 

"You  sound  exactly  like  Clay." 

She  was  entirely  incapable  of  understanding.  She  stood 
before  him,  straight  and  resentful,  and  yet  strangely  wistful 
and  appealing. 

"I  send  you  word  that  my  only  son  is  going  to  France,  that 
he  has  married  without  so  much  as  consulting  me,  that  he  is 
going  to  war  and  may  never  come  back.  I  needed  you,  and  you 
said  once  that  when  I  needed  you,  wherever  you  were,  you 
would  come.  So  I  sent  for  you,  and  now  you  act  like — like 
Clay." 

"Have  you  any  one  here?" 

"The  servants.  Good  gracious,  Rodney,  are  you  worrying 
about  that?" 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 365 

"Only  for  you,  Natalie." 

"We  resent  anything  that  reflects  on  a  name  we  respect 
rather  highly."  That  was  what  Nolan  had  said. 

"I'm  sorry  about  Graham,  dearest.  I  am  sorry  about  any 
trouble  that  comes  to  you.  You  know  that,  Natalie.  I'm  only 
regretful  that  you  have  let  me  place  you  in  an  uncomfortable 
position.  If  my  being  here  is  known — Look  here,  Natalie, 
dear,  I  hate  to  bother  you,  but  I'll  have  to  take  one  of  the 
cars  and  go  back  to  the  city  to-night." 

"Aren't  you  being  rather  absurd?" 

He  hesitated.  He  could  not  tell  her  of  that  awkward  talk 
with  Nolan.  There  were  many  things  he  would  not  tell  her; 
his  own  desire  to  rehabilitate  himself  among  the  men  he  knew, 
his  own  new-born  feeling  that  to  take  advantage  of  Clay 
ton's  absence  on  business  connected  with  the  war  was  pecu 
liarly  indefensible. 

"I  shall  order  the  car  at  once,"  she  said,  and  touched  a 
bell.  When  she  turned  he  was  just  behind  her,  but  altho  he 
held  out  his  arms  she  evaded  them,  her  eyes  hard  and  angry. 

"I  wish  you  would  try  to  understand,"  he  said. 

"I  do,  very  thoroughly.  Too  thoroughly.  You  are  afraid 
for  yourself,  not  for  me.  I  am  in  trouble,  but  that  is  a  sec 
ondary  consideration.  Don't  bother  about  me,  Rodney.  I 
have  borne  a  great  deal  alone  in  my  life,  and  I  can  bear  this." 

She  turned,  and  went  with  considerable  dignity  out  of  the 
door. 

"Natalie !"  he  called.  But  he  heard  her  with  a  gentle  rustle 
of  silks  going  up  the  staircase.  It  did  not  add  to  his  comfort 
that  she  had  left  him  to  order  the  car. 

All  through  the  night  Rodney  rode  and  thought.  He  was 
angry  at  Natalie,  but  he  was  angrier  at  himself.  He  felt  that 
he  had  been  brutal,  unnecessarily  callous.  After  all,  her  only 
son  was  on  his  way  to  war.  It  was  on  the  cards  that  he  might 
not  come  back.  And  he  had  let  his  uneasiness  dominate  his 
sympathy.  He  had  lost  her,  but  then  he  had  never  had  her. 
He  never  could  have  her. 


366 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Half  way  to  town,  on  a  back  road,  the  car  broke  down,  and 
after  vainly  endeavoring  to  start  it  the  chauffeur  set  off  on 
foot  to  secure  help.  Rodney  slept,  uncomfortably,  and  wak- 
j  ened  with  the  movement  of  the  machine  to  find  it  broad  day. 
That  was  awkward,  for  Natalie's  car  was  conspicuous,  marked 
too  with  her  initials.  He  asked  to  be  set  down  at  a  suburban 
railway  station,  and  was  dismayed  to  find  it  crowded  with 
early  commuters,  who  stared  at  the  big  car  with  interest. 
.;  On  the  platform,  eyeing  him  with  unfriendly  eyes,  was 
Nolan.  Rodney  made  a  movement  toward  him.  The  situa 
tion  was  intolerable,  absurd.  But  Nolan  turned  his  back  and 
proceeded  to  read  his  newspaper. 

Perhaps  not  in  years  had  Rodney  Page  faced  the  truth 
about  himself  so  clearly  as  he  did  that  morning,  riding  into 
the  city  on  the  train  which  carried,  somewhere  ahead,  that 
quietly  contemptuous  figure  that  was  Denis  Nolan.  Faced  the 
truth,  saw  himself  for  what  he  was,  and  loathed  the  thing  he 
saw.  For  a  little  time,  too,  it  was  given  him  to  see  Natalie 
for  what  she  was,  for  what  she  would  always  be,  her  sole 
contribution  to  life  the  web  of  her  selfishness,  carefully  woven, 
floating  apparently  aimlessly,  and  yet  snaring  and  holding  re 
lentlessly  whatever  it  touched.  Killing  freedom.  He  saw 
Clayton  and  Graham  and  himself,  feeders  for  her  monstrous 
complacency  and  vanity,  and  he  made  a  definite  determina 
tion  to  free  himself. 

"I'm  through,"  he  reflected  savagely.  "I'll  show  them  some 
thing,  too.  I'll " 

He  hesitated.  How  lovely  she  was!  And  she  cared  for 
him.  She  was  small  and  selfish  and  unspeakably  vain,  but 
she  cared  for  him. 

The  wa'r  had  done  something  for  Rodney  Page.  He  no 
longer  dreamed  the  old  dream,  of  turning  her  ice  to  fire.  But 
he  dreamed,  for  a  moment,  something  finer.  He  saw  Natalie 
his,  and  growing  big  and  fine  through  love.  He  saw  himself 
and  Natalie,  like  cards  in  the  game  of  life,  re-dealt.  A  new 
combination;  a  winning  hand 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

VERY  quietly  Audrey  had  taken  herself  out  of  Clayton's 
life.    She  sent  him  a  little  note  of  farewell : 

"We  have  had  ten  very  wonderful  months,  Clay,"  she 
wrote.  "We  ought  to  be  very  happy.  So  few  have  as  much. 
And  we  both  know  that  this  can't  go  on.  1  am  going  abroad. 
I  have  an  opportunity  to  go  over  and  see  what  Englishwomen 
are  doing  in  the  way  of  standing  behind  their  men  at  war. 
Then  I  am  to  tell  our  women  at  home.  Not  that  they  need 
it  now,  bless  them! 

"I  believe  you  will  be  glad  to  know  that  I  am  to  be  on  the 
same  side  of  the  ocean  with  Graham.  I  could  get  to  him,  I 
think,  if  anything  should  go  wrong.  Will  you  send  him  the 
enclosed  address? 

"But,  my  dear,  the  address  is  for  him,  not  for  you.  You 
must  not  write  to  me.  I  have  used  up  every  particle  of  moral 
courage  I  possess,  as  it  is.  And  I  am  holding  this  in  my 
mind,  as  you  must.  Time  is  a  great  healer  of  all  wounds. 
We  could  have  been  happy  together;  oh,  my  dear,  so  very 
happy  together!  Now  that  I  am  going,  let  me  be  frank  for 
once.  I  have  given  you  the  finest  thing  I  am  capable  of.  I 
am  better  for  caring  for  you  as  I  have,  as  I  do. 

"But  those  days  in  the  hospital  told  me  we  couldn't  go  on. 
Things  like  that  don't  stand  still.  Maybe — we  are  only  human, 
Clay — maybe  if  the  old  days  were  still  here  we  might  have 
compromised  with  life.  I  don't  know.  But  I  do  know  that 
we  never  will,  now. 

"After  all,  we  have  had  a  great  deal,  and  we  still  have. 
It  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  know  that  somewhere  in  the  world 
is  some  one  person  who  loves  you.  To  waken  up  in  the  morn 
ing  to  it.  To  go  to  sleep  remembering  it.  And  to  have  kept 
that  love  fine  and  clean  is  a  wonderful  thing,  too. 

367 


368  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"I  am  not  always  on  a  pinnacle.  There  have  been  plenty 
of  times  when  the  mere  human  want  of  you  has  sent  me  to 
the  dust.  Is  it  wrong  to  tell  you  that?  But  of  course  not. 
You  know  it.  But  you  and  I  know  this,  Clay,  dear.  Love  that 
is  hopeless,  that  can  not  end  in  marriage,  does  one  of  two 
things.  Either  it  degrades  or  it  exalts.  It  leaves  its  mark, 
always,  but  that  mark  does  not  need  to  be  a  stain." 

Clayton  lived,  for  a  time  after  that,  in  a  world  very  empty 
and  very  full.  The  new  plant  was  well  under  way.  Not  only 
was  he  about  to  make  shells  for  the  government  at  a  nominal 
profit,  but  Washington  was  asking  him  to  assume  new  and 
wide  responsibilities.  He  accepted.  He  wanted  so  to  fill  the 
hours  that  there  would  be  no  time  to  remember.  But,  more 
than  that,  he  was  actuated  by  a  fine  and  glowing  desire  to 
serve.  Perhaps,  underlying  it  all  was  the  determination  to 
be,  in  every  way,  the  man  Audrey  thought  him  to  be.  And 
there  was,  too,  a  square-jawed  resolution  to  put  behind  Gra 
ham,  and  other  boys  like  Graham,  all  the  shells  and  ammuni 
tion  they  needed. 

He  worked  hard;  more  than  hard.  Old  Terry,  meeting 
him  one  day  in  the  winter  that  followed,  was  shocked  at  his 
haggard  face. 

''Better  take  a  little  time  off,  Clay,"  he  suggested.  "We're 
going  to  Miami  next  week.  How  about  ten  days  or  so? 
Fishing  is  good  this  year." 

"Can't  very  well  take  a  holiday  just  now.  Too  much  to 
do,  Terry." 

Old  Terry  went  home  and  told  his  wife. 

"Looks  like  the  devil,"  he  said.  "He'll  go  down  sick  one  of 
these  days.  I  suppose  it's  no  use  telling  Natalie." 

"None  whatever,"  said  Mrs.  Terry.  "And,  anyhow,  it's  a 
thing  I  shouldn't  care  to  tell  Natalie." 

"What  do  you  mean,  not  care  to  tell  Natalie  ?" 

"Hard  work  doesn't  make  a  man  forget  how  to  smile." 

"Oh,  come  now.  He's  cheerful  enough.  If  you  mean  be 
cause  Graham's  fighting " 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 369 

"That's  only  part  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Terry,  sagely,  and  re 
lapsed  into  one  of  the  poignant  silences  that  drove  old  Terry 
to  a  perfect  frenzy  of  curiosity. 

Then,  in  January  of  1918,  a  crisis  came  to  Clayton  and 
Natalie  Spencer.  Graham  was  wounded. 

Clayton  was  at  home  when  the  news  came.  Natalie  had 
been  having  one  of  her  ill-assorted,  meticulously  elaborate 
dinner-parties,  and  when  the  guests  had  gone  they  were  for  a 
moment  alone  in  the  drawing-room  of  their  town  house.  Clay 
ton  was  fighting  in  himself  the  sense  of  irritation  Natalie's 
dinners  always  left,  especially  the  recent  ones.  She  was  serv 
ing,  he  knew,  too  much  food.  In  the  midst  of  the  agitation  on 
conservation,  her  dinners  ran  their  customary  seven  courses. 
There  was  too  much  wine,  too.  But  it  occurred  to  him  that 
only  the  wine  had  made  the  dinner  endurable. 

Then  he  tried  to  force  himself  into  better  humor.  Natalie 
was  as  she  was,  and  if,  in  an  unhappy,  struggling,  dying  world 
she  found  happiness  in  display,  God  knew  there  was  little 
enough  happiness.  He  was  not  at  home  very  often.  He  could 
not  spoil  her  almost  childish  content  in  the  small  things  that 
made  up  her  life. 

"I  think  it  was  very  successful/'  she  said,  surveying  herself 
in  one  of  the  corner  mirrors.  "Do  you  like  my  gown,  Clay  ?" 

"It's  very  lovely." 

"It's  new.  I've  been  getting  some  clothes,  Clay.  You'll 
probably  shriek  at  the  bills.  But  all  this  talk  about  not  buying 
clothes  is  nonsense,  you  know.  The  girls  who  work  in  the 
shops  have  to  live.3* 

"Naturally.  Of  course  there  is  other  work  open  to  them 
now." 

"In  munition  plants,  I  daresay.     To  be  blown  up !" 

He  winced.  The  thought  of  that  night  the  year  before,  when 
the  plant  went,  still  turned  him  sick. 

"Don't  buy  too  many  things,  my  dear,"  he  said,  gently. 
"You  know  how  things  are." 

"I  know  it's  your  fault  that  they  are  as  they  are,"  she  per- 


37Q DANGEROUS  DAYS 

sisted.  "Oh,  I  know  it  was  noble  of  you,  and  all  that.  The 
country's  crazy  about  you.  But  still  I  think  it  was  silly. 
Every  one  else  is  making  money  out  of  things,  and  you — a  lot 
of  thanks  you'll  get,  when  the  war's  over." 

"I  don't  particularly  want  thanks." 

Then  the  door-bell  rang  in  the  back  of  the  house,  and 
Buckham  answered  it.  He  was  conscious  at  once  that  Natalie 
stiffened,  and  that  she  was  watchful  and  a  trifle  pale.  Buck- 
ham  brought  in  a  telegram  on  a  tray. 

"Give  it  to  me,  Buckham,"  Natalie  said,  in  a  strained  voice. 
And  held  out  her  hand  for  it.  When  she  saw  it  was  for 
Clayton,  however,  she  relaxed.  As  he  tore  it  open,  Clayton 
was  thinking.  Evidently  Natalie  had  been  afraid  of  his  seeing 
some  message  for  her.  Was  it  possible  that  Natalie 

He  opened  it. 

After  what  seemed  a  long  time  he  looked  up.  Her  eyes 
were  on  him. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "It  is  not  very  bad. 
But  Graham  has  been  slightly  wounded.  Sit  down,"  he  said 
sharply,  as  he  saw  her  sway. 

"You  are  lying  to  me,"  she  said  in  a  dreadful  voice.  "He's 
dead!" 

"He  is  not  dead,  Natalie."  He  tried  to  put  her  into  a  chair, 
but  she  resisted  him  fiercely. 

"Let  me  alone.    I  want  to  see  that  telegram." 

And,  very  reluctantly,  at  last  he  gave  it  to  her.  Graham 
was  severely  wounded.  It  was  from  a  man  in  his  own  depart 
ment  at  Washington  who  had  just  seen  the  official  list.  The 
nature  of  his  wounding  had  not  been  stated. 

Natalie  looked  up  from  the  telegram  with  a  face  like  a 
painted  mask. 

"This  is  your  doing,"  she  said.  "You  wanted  him  to  go. 
You  sent  him  into  this.  He  will  die,  and  you  will  have  mur 
dered  him." 

The  thought  came  to  him,  in  that  hour  of  stress,  that  she 
was  right.  Pitifully,  damnably  right.  He  had  not  wanted 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 371 

Graham  to  go,  but  he  had  wanted  him  to  want  to  go.  A 
thousand  thoughts  flashed  through  his  mind,  of  Delight,  sleep 
ing  somewhere  quietly  after  her  day's  work  at  the  camp;  of 
Graham  himself,  of  that  morning  after  the  explosion,  and  his 
frank,  pitiful  confession.  And  again  of  Graham,  suffering, 
perhaps  dying,  and  with  none  of  his  own  about  him.  And 
through  it  all  was  the  feeling  that  he  must  try  to  bring  Natalie 
to  reason,  that  it  was  incredible  that  she  should  call  him  his 
own  son's  murderer. 

"We  must  not  think  of  his  dying,"  he  said.  "We  must  only 
think  that  he  is  going  to  live,  and  to  come  back  to  us,  Natalie 
dear." 

She  flung  off  the  arm  he  put  around  her. 

"And  that,"  he  went  on,  feeling  for  words  out  of  the  dread 
ful  confusion  in  his  mind,  "if — the  worst  comes,  that  he  has 
done  a  magnificent  thing.  There  is  no  greater  thing,  Natalie." 

"That  won't  bring  him  back  to  us,"  she  said,  still  in  that 
frozen  voice.  And  suddenly  she  burst  into  hard,  terrible  cry 
ing. 

All  that  night  he  sat  outside  her  door,  for  she  would  not 
allow  him  to  come  in.  He  had  had  Washington  on  the  tele 
phone,  but  when  at  last  he  got  the  connection  it  was  to  learn 
that  no  further  details  were  known.  Toward  dawn  there  came 
the  official  telegram  from  the  War  Department,  but  it  told 
nothing  more. 

Natalie  was  hysterical.  He  had  sent  for  a  doctor,  and  with 
Madeleine  in  attendance  the  medical  man  had  worked  over 
her  for  hours.  Going  out,  toward  morning,  he  had  found 
Clayton  in  the  hall  and  had  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"Better  go  to  bed,  Mr.  Spencer,"  he  advised.  "It  may  not 
be  as  bad  as  you  think.  And  they're  doing  fine  surgery  over 
there." 

And,  as  Clayton  shook  his  head: 

"Mrs.  Spencer  will  come  round  all  right.  She's  hysterical, 
naturally.  She'll  be  sending  for  you  before  long." 

With  the   dawn,   Clayton's   thoughts   cleared.    If  he   and 


372 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Natalie  were  ever  to  get  together  at  all,  it  should  be  now,  with 
this  common  grief  between  them.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was 
not  too  late  to  re-build  his  house  of  life.  He  had  failed.  Per 
haps  they  had  both  failed,  but  the  real  responsibility  was  his. 
Inside  the  room  he  could  hear  her  moaning,  a  low,  monotonous, 
heart-breaking  moan.  He  was  terribly  sorry  for  her.  She 
had  no  exaltation  to  help  her,  no  strength  of  soul,  no  strength 
of  any  sort.  And,  as  men  will  under  stress,  he  tried  to  make 
a  bargain  with  his  God. 

"Let  him  live,"  he  prayed.  "Bring  him  back  to  us,  and  I 
will  try  again.  I'll  do  better.  I've  been  a  rotten  failure,  as  far 
as  she  is  concerned.  But  I'll  try." 

He  felt  somewhat  better  after  that,  altho  he  felt  a  certain 
ignominy,  too,  that  always,  until  such  a  time,  he  had  gone 
on  his  own,  as  it  were,  and  that  now,  when  he  no  longer  suf 
ficed  for  himself,  he  should  beseech  the  Almighty. 

Natalie  had  had  a  sleeping-powder,  and  at  last  he  heard  her 
moaning  cease  and  the  stealthy  movements  of  her  maid  as  she 
lowered  the  window  shades.  It  was  dawn. 

During  the  next  two  days  Clayton  worked  as  he  never  had 
worked  before,  still  perhaps  with  that  unspoken  pact  in  mind. 
Worked  too,  to  forget.  He  had  sent  several  cables,  but  no 
reply  came  until  the  third  day.  He  did  not  sleep  at  night. 
He  did  not  even  go  to  bed.  He  sat  in  the  low  chair  in  his 
dressing-room,  dozing  occasionally,  to  waken  with  a  start 
at  some  sound  in  the  hall.  Now  and  again,  as  the  trained 
nurse  who  was  watching  Natalie  at  night  moved  about  the 
hallways,  he  would  sit  up,  expecting  a  summons  that  did  not 
come. 

She  still  refused  to  see  him.  It  depressed  and  frightened 
him,  for  how  could  he  fulfill  his  part  of  the  compact  when  she 
so  sullenly  shut  him  out  of  her  life  ? 

He  was  singularly  simple  in  his  fundamental  beliefs.  There 
was  a  Great  Power  somewhere,  call  it  what  one  might,  and 
it  dealt  out  justice  or  mercy  as  one  deserved  it.  On  that, 
of  course,  had  been  built  an  elaborate  edifice  of  creed  and 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 373 

dogma,  but  curiously  enough  it  all  fell  away  now.  He  was, 
in  those  night  hours,  again  the  boy  who  had  prayed  for  fair 
weather  for  circus  day  and  had  promised  in  return  to  read 
his  Bible  through  during  the  next  year.  And  had  done  it. 

In  the  daytime,  however,  he  was  a  man,  suffering  terribly, 
and  facing  the  complexities  of  his  life  alone.  One  thing  he 
knew.  This  was  decisive.  Either,  under  the  stress  of  a  com 
mon  trouble,  he  and  Natalie  would  come  together,  to  make  the 
best  they  could  of  the  years  to  come,  or  they  would  be  hope 
lessly  alienated. 

But  that  was  secondary  to  Graham.  Everything  was  sec 
ondary  to  Graham,  indeed.  He  had  cabled  Audrey,  and  he 
drew  a  long  breath  when,  on  the  third  day,  a  cable  came  from 
her.  She  had  located  Graham  at  last.  He  had  been  shot  in 
the  chest,  and  there  were  pneumonia  symptoms. 

"Shall  stay  with  him,"  she  ended,  "and  shall  send  daily  re 
ports." 

Next  to  his  God,  he  put  his  faith  in  Audrey.  Almost  he 
prayed  to  her. 

D  unbar,  now  a  captain  in  the  Military  Intelligence  Bureau, 
visiting  him  in  his  office  one  day,  found  Clayton's  face  an 
interesting  study.  Old  lines  of  repression,  new  ones  of  anxiety, 
marked  him  deeply. 

"The  boy,  of  course,"  he  thought.  And  then  reflected  that 
it  takes  time  to  carve  such  lines  as  were  written  in  the  face 
of  the  man  across  the  desk  from  him.  Time  and  a  woman, 
he  considered  shrewdly.  His  mind  harked  back  to  that  din 
ner  in  the  Spencer  house  when  diplomatic  relations  had  been 
broken  off  with  Germany,  and  war  seemed  imminent.  It  was 
the  wife,  probably.  He  remembered  that  she  had  been  op 
posed  to  war,  and  to  the  boy's  going.  There  were  such 
women  in  the  country.  There  were  fewer  of  them  all  the 
time,  but  they  existed,  women  who  saw  in  war  only  sacrifice. 
Women  who  counted  no  cost  too  high  for  peace.  If  they  only 
hurt  themselves  it  did  not  matter,  but  they  could  and  did  do 
incredible  damage. 


374 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Clayton  was  going  through  some  papers  he  had  brought, 
and  Dunbar  had  time  to  consider  what  to  him  was  an  inter 
esting  problem.  Mrs.  Spencer  had  kept  the  boy  from  imme 
diate  enlistment.  He  had  wanted  to  go ;  Dunbar  knew  that. 
If  she  had  allowed  him  to  go  the  affair  with  Anna  Klein 
would  have  been  ended.  He  knew  all  that  story  now.  Then, 
if  there  had  been  no  affair,  Herman  would  not  have  blown 
up  the  munition  works  and  a  good  many  lives,  valuable  to 
themselves  at  least,  might  have  been  saved. 

"Curious!"  he  reflected.  "One  woman!  And  she  prob 
ably  sleeps  well  at  nights  and  goes  to  church  on  Sundays !" 

Clayton  passed  back  his  papers,  and  ran  a  hand  over  his 
heavy  hair. 

"They  seem  to  be  all  right/'  he  said. 

Dunbar  rose. 

"Hope  the  next  news  will  be  better,  Mr.  Spencer/' 

"I  hope  so." 

"I  haven't  told  you,  I  think,  that  we  have  traced  Rudolph 
Klein." 

Clayton's  face  set. 

"No." 

"He's  got  away,  unfortunately.  Over  the  border  into  Mex 
ico.  They  have  a  regular  system  there,  the  Germans — an  un 
derground  railway  to  Mexico  City.  They  have  a  paymaster 
on  our  side  of  the  line.  They  even  bank  in  one  of  our  banks ! 
Oh,  we'll  get  them  yet,  of  course,  but  they're  damnably 
clever." 

"I  suppose  there  is  no  hope  of  getting  Rudolph  Klein?" 

"Not  while  the  Germans  are  running  Mexico,"  Captain 
Dunbar  replied,  dryly.  "He's  living  in  a  Mexican  town  just 
over  the  border.  We're  watching  him.  If  he  puts  a  foot  on 
this  side  we'll  grab  him." 

Clayton  sat  back  after  he  had  gone.  He  was  in  his  old 
office  at  the  mill,  where  Joey  had  once  formed  his  unofficial 
partnership  with  the  firm.  Outside  in  the  mill  yard  there  was 
greater  activity  than  ever,  but  many  of  the  faces  were  new. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 375 

The  engineer  who  had  once  run  the  yard  engine  was  building 
bridges  in  France.  Hutchinson  had  heard  the  call,  and  was 
learning  to  fly  in  Florida.  The  service  flag  over  his  office 
door  showed  hundreds  of  stars,  and  more  were  being  added 
constantly.  Joey  dead.  Graham  wounded,  his  family  life 
on  the  verge  of  disruption,  and  Audrey 

Then,  out  of  the  chaos  there  came  an  exaltation.  He  had 
given  himself,  his  son,  the  wealth  he  had  hoped  to  have,  but, 
thank  God,  he  had  had  something  to  give.  There  were  men 
who  could  give  nothing,  like  old  Terry  Mackenzie,  knocking 
billiard-balls  around  at  the  club,  and  profanely  wistful  that 
he  had  had  no  son  to  go.  His  mind  ranged  over  those  pa 
thetic,  prosperous,  sonless  men  who  filed  into  the  club  late 
in  the  afternoons,  and  over  the  last  editions  and  whisky-and- 
sodas  fought  their  futile  warfare,  their  battle-ground  a  news 
paper  map,  their  upraised  voices  their  only  weapons. 

On  parade  days,  when  the  long  lines  of  boys  in  khaki  went 
by,  they  were  silent,  heavy,  inutile.  They  were  too  old  to 
fight.  The  biggest  thing  in  their  lives  was  passing  them  by, 
as  passed  the  lines  of  marching  boys,  and  they  had  no  part 
in  it.  They  were  feeding  their  hungry  spirits  on  the  dregs 
of  war,  on  committee  meetings  and  public  gatherings,  and 
they  were  being  useful.  But  the  great  exaltation  of  offering 
their  best  was  not  for  them. 

He  was  living  a  tragedy,  but  a  greater  tragedy  was  that 
of  the  childless.  And  back  of  that  again  was  the  woman 
who  had  not  wanted  children.  There  were  many  men  to-day 
who  were  feeling  the  selfishness  of  a  woman  at  home,  men 
who  had  lost,  somehow,  their  pride,  their  feeling  of  being  a 
part  of  great  things.  Men  who  went  home  at  night  to  comfort 
able  dwellings,  with  no  vacant  chair  at  the  table,  and  dined 
in  a  peace  they  had  not  earned. 

Natalie  had  at  least  given  him  a  son. 

He  took  that  thought  home  with  him  in  the  evening.  He 
stopped  at  a  florist's  and  bought  a  great  box  of  flowers  for 
her,  and  sent  them  into  her  room  with  a  little  note, 


376 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"Won't  you  let  me  come  in  and  try  to  comfort  you?" 

But  Madeleine  brought  the  box  out  again,  and  there  was 
pity  in  her  eyes. 

"Mrs.  Spencer  can  not  have  them  in  the  room,  sir.  She 
says  the  odor  of  flowers  makes  her  ill." 

He  knew  Madeleine  had  invented  the  excuse,  that  Natalie 
had  simply  rejected  his  offering.  He  went  down-stairs,  and 
made  a  pretense  of  dining  alone  in  the  great  room. 

It  was  there  that  Audrey's  daily  cable  found  him.  Buck- 
ham  brought  it  in  in  shaking  fingers,  and  stood  by,  white  and 
still,  while  he  opened  it. 

Clayton  stood  up.  He  was  very  white,  but  his  voice  was 
full  and  strong. 

"He  is  better,  Buckham!     Better!" 

Suddenly  Buckham  was  crying.  His  austere  face  was  dis 
torted,  his  lean  body  trembling.  Clayton  put  his  arm  around 
the  bowed  old  shoulders. 

And  in  that  moment,  as  they  stood  there,  master  and  man, 
Clayton  Spencer  had  a  flash  of  revelation.  There  was  love 
and  love.  The  love  of  a  man  for  a  woman,  and  of  a  woman 
for  a  man,  of  a  mother  for  the  child  at  her  knee,  of  that  child 
for  its  mother.  But  that  the  great  actuating  motive  of  a 
man's  maturity,  of  the  middle  span,  was  vested  along  with 
his  dreams,  his  pride  and  his  love,  in  his  son,  his  man-child. 

Buckham,  carrying  his  coffee  into  the  library  somewhat 
later,  found  him  with  his  head  down  on  his  desk,  and  the 
cablegram  clutched  in  his  outstretched  hands.  He  tip-toed 
out,  very  quietly. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 

CLAYTON'S  first  impulse  was  to  take  the  cable  to  Natalie, 
to  brush  aside  the  absurd  defenses  she  had  erected,  and 
behind  which  she  cowered,  terrified  but  obstinate.  To  say  to 
her, 

"He  is  living.  He  is  going  to  live.  But  this  war  is  not  over 
yet.  If  we  want  him  to  come  through,  we  must  stand  to 
gether.  We  must  deserve  to  have  him  come  back  to  us." 

But  by  the  time  he  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs  he  knew 
he  could  not  do  it.  She  would  not  understand.  She  would 
think  he  was  using  Graham  to  further  a  reconciliation;  and, 
after  her  first  joy  was  over,  he  knew  that  he  would  see  again 
that  cynical  smile  that  always  implied  that  he  was  dramatizing 
himself. 

Nothing  could  dim  his  strong  inner  joy,  but  something  of 
its  outer  glow  faded.  He  would  go  to  her,  later.  Not  now. 
Nothing  must  spoil  this  great  thankfulness  of  his. 

He  gave  Madeleine  the  cable,  and  went  down  again  to  the 
library. 

After  a  time  he  began  to  go  over  the  events  of  the  past 
eighteen  months.  His  return  from  the  continent,  and  that 
curious  sense  of  unrest  that  had  followed  it,  the  opening  of 
his  eyes  to  the  futility  of  his  life.  His  failure  to  Natalie  and 
her  failure  to  him.  Graham,  made  a  man  by  war  and  by  the 
love  of  a  good  woman.  Chris,  ending  his  sordid  life  in  a  blaze 
of  glory,  and  forever  forgiven  his  tawdry  sins  because  of  his 
one  big  hour. 

War  took,  but  it  gave  also.  It  had  taken  Joey,  for  instance, 
but  Joey  had  had  his  great  moment.  It  was  better  to  have  one 
great  moment  and  die  than  to  drag  on  through  useless  years. 
And  it  was  the  same  way  with  a  nation.  A  nation  needed  its 

377 


£8 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

hour.  It  was  only  in  a  crisis  that  it  could  know  its  own 
strength.  How  many  of  them,  who  had  been  at  that  dinner  of 
Natalie's  months  before,  had  met  their  crisis  bravely!  Nolan 
was  in  France  now.  Doctor  Haverford  was  at  the  front. 
Audrey  was  nursing  Graham.  Marion  Hayden  was  in  a  hos 
pital  training-school.  Rodney  Page  was  still  building  wooden 
barracks  in  a  cantonment  in  Indiana,  and  was  making  good. 
He  himself 

They  could  never  go  back,  none  of  them,  to  the  old  smug, 
complacent,  luxurious  days.  They  could  no  more  go  back 
than  Joey  could  return  to  life  again.  War  was  the  irrevocable 
step,  as  final  as  death  itself.  'And  he  remembered  something 
Nolan  had  said,  just  before  he  sailed. 

"We  have  had  one  advantage,  Clay.  Or  maybe  it  is  not  an 
advantage,  after  all.  Do  you  realize  that  you  and  I  have  lived 
through  the  Golden  Age?  We  have  seen  it  come  and  seen  it 
go.  The  greatest  height  of  civilization,  since  the  world  be 
gan,  the  greatest  achievements,  the  most  opulent  living.  And 
we  saw  it  all  crash.  It  will  be  a  thousand  years  before  the 
world  will  be  ready  for  another." 

And  later, 

"I  suppose  every  life  has  its  Golden  Age.  Generally  we 
think  it  is  youth.  I'm  not  so  sure.  Youth  is  looking  ahead. 
It  has  its  hopes  and  its  disappointments.  The  Golden  Age 
in  a  man's  life  ought  to  be  the  age  of  fulfillment.  It's  nearer 
the  forties  than  the  twenties." 

"Have  you  reached  it?" 

"I'm  going  to,  on  the  other  side." 

And  Clayton  had  smiled. 

"You  are  going  to  reach  it,"  he  said.  "We  are  always 
going  to  find  it,  Nolan.  It  is  always  just  ahead." 

And  Nolan  had  given  him  one  of  his  quick,  understanding 
glances. 

There  could  be  no  Golden  Age  for  him.  For  the  Golden 
Age  for  a  man  meant  fulfillment.  The  time  came  to  every 
man  when  he  must  sit  at  the  west  window  of  his  house  of 


DANGEROUS  DAYS  379 

life  and  look  toward  the  sunset.  If  he  faced  that  sunset 
alone 

He  heard  Madeleine  carrying  down  Natalie's  dinner-tray, 
and  when  she  left  the  pantry  she  came  to  the  door  of  the 
library. 

"Mrs.  Spencer  would  like  to  see  you,  sir." 

"Thank  you,  Madeleine.    I'll  go  up  very  soon." 

Suddenly  he  knew  that  he  did  not  want  to  go  up  to  Natalie's 
scented  room.  She  had  shut  him  out  when  she  was  in 
trouble.  She  had  not  cared  that  he,  too,  was  in  distress. 
She  had  done  her  best  to  invalidate  that  compact  he  had 
made.  She  had  always  invalidated  him. 

To  go  back  to  the  old  way,  to  the  tribute  she  enforced  to 
feed  her  inordinate  vanity,  to  the  old  hypocricy  of  their  rela 
tionship,  to  live  again  the  old  lie,  was  impossible. 

He  got  up.  He  would  not  try  to  buy  himself  happiness  at 
the  cost  of  turning  her  adrift.  But  he  must,  some  way,  buy 
his  self-respect. 

He  heard  her  then,  on  the  staircase,  that  soft  rustle  which, 
it  seemed  to  him,  had  rasped  the  silk  of  his  nerves  all  their 
years  together  with  its  insistence  on  her  dainty  helplessness, 
her  femininity,  her  right  to  protection.  The  tap  of  her  high 
heels  came  closer.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and  turned,  de 
terminedly  smiling,  to  face  the  door. 

Almost  at  once  he  saw  that  she  was  frightened.  She  had 
taken  pains  to  look  her  best — but  then  she  always  did  that. 
She  was  rouged  to  the  eyes,  and  the  floating  white  chiffon  of 
her  negligee  gave  to  her  slim  body  the  illusion  of  youth,  that 
last  illusion  to  which  she  so  desperately  clung.  But — she  was 
frightened. 

She  stood  in  the  doorway,  one  hand  holding  aside  the  heavy 
velvet  curtain,  and  looked  at  him  with  wide,  penciled  eyes. 

"Clay?" 

"Yes.     Come  in.     Shall  I  have  Buckham  light  a  fire?" 

She  came  in,  slowly. 

"Do  you  suppose  that  cable  is  reliable?" 


380 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

"I  should  think  so." 

"He  may  have  a  relapse." 

"We  mustn't  worry  about  what  may  come.  He  is  better 
now.  The  chances  are  that  he'll  stc.y  better. ' 

"Probably.     I  suppose,  because  I  have  oeen  so  ill " 

He  felt  the  demand  for  sympathy,  but  he  had  none  to  give. 
And  he  felt  something  else.  Natalie  was  floundering,  an  odd 
word  for  her,  always  so  sure  of  herself.  She  was  frightened, 
unsure  of  herself,  and — floundering.  Why? 

"Are  you  going  to  be  in  to-night  ?" 

"Yes." 

She  gave  a  curious  little  gesture.  Then  she  evidently  made 
up  her  mind  and  she  faced  him  defiantly. 

"Of  course,  if  I  had  known  he  was  going  to  be  better,  I'd — 
Clay,  I  wired  yesterday  for  Rodney  Page.  He  arrives  to 
night." 

"Rodney?" 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  think  I  quite  understand,  Natalie.  Why  did  you 
wire  for  him?" 

"You  wouldn't  understand,  of  course.  I  was  in  trouble. 
He  has  been  my  best  friend.  I  tried  to  bear  it  alone,  but  I 
couldn't.  I " 

"Alone!    You  wouldn't  see  me." 

"I  couldn't,  Clay." 

"Why?" 

"Because — if  Graham  had  died " 


Her  mouth  trembled.     She  put  her  hand  to  her  throat. 

"You  would  have  blamed  me  for  his  death  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then,  even  now,  if " 

"Yes." 

The  sheer  cruelty  of  it  sent  him  pale.  Y'et  it  was  not  so 
much  deliberate  as  unconscious.  She  was  forcing  herself 
to  an  unwonted  honesty.  It  was  her  honest  conviction  that  he 
was  responsible  for  Graham's  wounding  and  danger. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 381 

"Let  me  get  to  the  bottom  of  this,"  he  said  quietly.  "You 
hold  me  responsible.  Very  well.  How  far  does  that  take  us  ? 
How  far  does  that  take  you  ?  To  Rodney  ?" 

"You  needn't  be  brutal.  Rodney  understands  me.  He — 
he  cares  for  me,  Clay." 

"I  see.  And,  since  you  sent  for  him,  I  take  it  you  care  for 
Rodney." 

"I  don't  know.     I " 

"Isn't  it  time  you  do  know  ?  For  God's  sake,  Natalie,  make 
up  your  mind  to  some  course  and  stick  to  it." 

But  accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  curious  turns  of  her  mind, 
he  was  still  astounded  to  have  her  turn  on  him  and  accuse 
him  of  trying  to  get  rid  of  her.  It  was  not  until  later  that 
he  realized  in  that  attitude  of  hers  her  old  instinct  of  shifting 
the  responsibility  from  her  own  shoulders. 

And  then  Rodney  was  announced. 

The  unreality  of  the  situation  persisted.  Rodney's  strained 
face  and  uneasy  manner,  his  uniform,  the  blank  pause  when 
he  had  learned  that  Graham  was  better,  and  when  the  ordi 
nary  banalities  of  greeting  were  over.  Beside  Clayton  he 
looked  small,  dapper,  and  wretchedly  uncomfortable,  and  yet 
even  Clayton  had  to  acknowledge  a  sort  of  dignity  in  the  man. 

He  felt  sorry  for  him,  for  the  disillusion  that  was  to  come. 
And  at  the  same  time  he  felt  an  angry  contempt  for  him,  that 
he  should  have  forced  so  theatrical  a  situation.  That  the 
night  which  saw  Graham's  beginning  recovery  should  be  tar 
nished  by  the  wild  clutch  after  happiness  of  two  people  who 
had  done  so  little  to  earn  it. 

He  saw  another,  totally  different  scene,  for  a  moment.  He 
saw  Graham  in  his  narrow  bed  that  night  in  some  dimly- 
lighted  hospital  ward,  and  he  saw  Audrey  beside  him,  watch 
ing  and  waiting  and  praying.  A  wild  desire  to  be  over  there, 
one  of  that  little  group,  almost  overcame  him.  And  in 
stead " 

"Natalie  has  not  been  well,  Rodney,"  he  said.     "I  rather 


382 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

think,  if  you  have  anything  to  say  to  me,  we  would  better 
talk  alone," 

Natalie  went  out,  her  draperies  trailing  behind  her.  Clayton 
listened,  as  she  moved  slowly  up  the  stairs.  For  the  last  time 
he  heard  that  soft  rustling  which  had  been  the  accompani 
ment  to  so  many  of  the  most  poignant  hours  of  his  life.  He 
listened  until  it  had 'died  away. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

FOR  months  Rudolph  Klein  had  been  living  in  a  little  Mex 
ican  town  on  the 'border.  There  were  really  two  towns, 
but  they  were  built  together  with  only  a  strip  of  a  hundred 
feet  between.  Along  this  strip  ran  the  border  itself,  with  a 
tent  pitched  on  the  American  side,  and  patrols  of  soldiers 
guarding  it.  The  American  side  was  bright  and  clean,  or 
derly  and  self-respecting,  but  only  a  hundred  feet  away,  un 
kempt,  dusty,  with  adobe  buildings  and  a  notorious  gambling- 
hell  in  plain  view,  was  Mexico  itself — leisurely,  improvident, 
not  overscrupulous  Mexico. 

At  first  Rudolph  was  fairly  contented.  It  amused  him.  He 
liked  the  idleness  of  it.  He  liked  kicking  the  innumerable 
Mexican  dogs  out  of  his  way.  He  liked  baiting  the  croupiers 
in  the  "Owl."  He  liked  wandering  into  that  notorious  resort 
and  shoving  Hindus,  Chinamen,  and  Mexicans  out  of  the  way, 
while  he  flung  down  a  silver  dollar  and  watched  the  dealers 
with  cunning,  avaricious  eyes. 

He  liked  his  own  situation,  too.  It  amused  him  to  think 
that  here  he  was  safe,  while  only  a  hundred  feet  away  he 
was  a  criminal,  fugitive  from  the  law.  He  liked  to  go  to  the 
very  border  itself,  and  jeer  at  the  men  on  guard  there. 

"If  I  was  on  that  side/'  he  would  say,  "you'd  have  me  in 
one  of  those  rotten  uniforms,  wouldn't  you?  Come  on  over, 
fellows.  The  liquor's  fine." 

Then,  one  day,  a  Chinaman  he  had  insulted  gave  him  an 
unexpected  shove,  and  he  had  managed  to  save  himself  by  a 
foot  from  the  clutch  of  a  quiet-faced  man  in  plain  clothes 
who  spent  a  certain  amount  of  time  lounging  on  the  other  side 
of  the  border. 

That  had  sobered  him.  He  kept  away  from  the  border  itself 

385 


384  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

after  that,  although  the  temptation  of  it  $rew  m'm-  After  a 
few  weeks,  when  the  novelty  had  worn  off,  he  began  to  hunger 
for  the  clean  little  American  town  across  the  line.  He  wanted 
to  talk  to  some  one.  He  wanted  to  boast,  to  be  candid.  These 
Mexicans  only  laughed  when  he  bragged  to  them.  But  he 
dared  not  cross. 

There  was  a  high-fenced  enclosure  behind  the  "Owl,"  the 
segregated  district  of  the  town.  There,  in  tiny  one-roomed 
houses  built  in  rows  like  barracks  were  the  girls  and  women 
who  had  drifted  to  this  jumping-off  place  of  the  world.  In 
the  daytime  they  slept  or  sat  on  the  narrow,  ramshackle 
porches,  untidy,  noisy,  unspeakably  wretched.  At  night,  how 
ever,  they  blossomed  forth  in  tawdry  finery,  in  the  dancing- 
space  behind  the  gambling-tables.  Some  of  them  were  fix 
tures.  They  had  drifted  there  from  New  Orleans,  perhaps, 
or  southern  California,  and  they  lacked  the  initiative  or  the 
money  to  get  away.  But  most  of  them  came  in,  stayed  a 
month  or  two,  found  the  place  a  nightmare,  with  its  shoot 
ings  and  stabbings,  and  then  disappeared. 

At  first  Rudolph  was  popular  in  this  hell  of  the  under 
world.  He  spent  money  easily,  he  danced  well,  he  had  au 
dacity  and  a  sort  of  sardonic  humor.  They  asked  no  ques 
tions,  those  poor  wretches  who  had  themselves  slid  over  the 
edge  of  life.  They  took  what  came,  grateful  for  little  pleas 
ures,  glad  even  to  talk  their  own  tongue. 

And  then,  one  broiling  August  day,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
when  the  compound  was  usually  seething  with  the  first  fetid 
life  of  the  day,  Rudolph  found  it  suddenly  silent  when  he 
entered  it,  and  hostile,  contemptuous  eyes  on  him. 

A  girl  with  Anna  Klein's  eyes,  a  girl  he  had  begun  to  fancy, 
suddenly  said, 

"Draft-dodger!" 

There  was  a  ripple  of  laughter  around  the  compound.  They 
commenced  to  bait  him,  those  women  he  would  not  have  wiped 
his  feet  on  at  home.  They  literally  laughed  him  out  of  the 
compound. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 385 

He  went  home  to  his  stifling,  windowless  adobe  room,  with 
its  sagging  narrov  bed,  its  candle,  its  broken  crockery,  and  he 
stood  in  the  center  of  the  room  and  chewed  his  nails  with 
fury.  After  a  time  he  sat  down  and  considered  what  to  da 
next.  He  would  have  to  move  on  some  time.  As  well  now  as 
ever.  He  was  sick  of  the  place. 

He  began  preparations  to  move  on,  gathering  up  the  accu 
mulation  of  months  of  careless  living  for  destruction.  He 
picked  up  some  newspapers  preparatory  to  throwing  them 
away,  and  a  name  caught  his  attention.  Standing  there,  inside 
his  doorway  in  the  Mexican  dusk,  he  read  of  Graham's  re 
cent  wounding,  his  mending,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  won 
the  Croix  de  Guerre.  Supreme  bitterness  was  Rudolph's  then. 

"Stage  stuff !"  he  muttered.  But  in  the  depths  of  his  warped 
soul  there  was  bitter  envy.  He  knew  well  with  what  fright 
ened  yet  adoring  eyes  Anna  Klein  had  devoured  that  news  of 
Graham  Spencer.  While  for  him  there  was  the  girl  in  the 
compound  back  of  the  "Owl,"  with  Anna  Klein's  eyes,  filled 
when  she  looked  at  him  with  that  bitterest  scorn  of  all,  the 
contempt  of  the  wholly  contemptible. 

That  night  he  went  to  the  Owl.  He  had  shaved  and  had 
his  hair  cut  and  he  wore  his  only  remaining  decent  suit  of 
clothes.  He  passed  through  the  swinging  gate  in  the  railing 
which  separated  the  dancing-floor  from  the  tables'  and  went 
up  to  the  line  of  girls,  sitting  in  that  saddest  waiting  of  all  the 
world,  along  the  wall.  There  was  an  ominous  silence  at  his 
approach.  He  planted  himself  in  front  of  the  girl  with  eyes 
like  Anna  Klein. 

"Are  you  going  to  dance?" 

"Not  with  you,"  she  replied,  evenly.  And  again  the  ripple 
of  laughter  spread. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you're  a  coward,"  she  said.  "I'd  rather  dance 
with  a  Chinaman." 

"If  you  think  I'm  here  because  I'm  afraid  to  fight  you  can 
think  again.  Not  that  I  care  what  you  think." 


386 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

He  had  meant  to  boast  a  little,  to  intimate  that  he  had 
pulled  off  a  big  thing,  but  he  saw  that  he  was  ridiculous.  The 
situation  infuriated  him.  Suddenly  he  burst  into  foul-mouthed 
invective,  until  one  of  the  girls  said,  wearily, 

"Oh,  cut  that  out,  you  slacker." 

And  he  knew  that  no  single  word  he  had  used  against  them, 
out  of  a  vocabulary  both  extensive  and  horrible,  was  to  them 
so  degraded  as  that  single  one  applied  to  him. 

Late  that  night  he  received  a  tip  from  a  dealer  at  one  of 
vingt-et-un  tables.  There  were  inquiries  being  made  for  him 
across  the  border.  That  very  evening  he,  the  dealer,  had  gone 
across  for  a  sack  of  flour,  and  he  had  heard  about  it. 

"You'd  better  get  out/'  said  the  dealer. 

"I'm  as  safe  here  as  I'd  be  in  Mexico  City." 

"Don't  be  too  sure,  son.  You're  not  any  too  popular  here. 
There's  such  a  thing  as  being  held  up  and  carried  over  the 
border.  It's  been  done  before  now." 

"I'm  sick  of  this  hole,  anyhow,"  Rudolph  muttered,  and 
moved  away  in  the  crowd.  The  mechanical  piano  was  bang 
ing  in  the  dance-hall  as  he  slipped  out  into  the  darkness,  under 
the  clear  starlight  of  the  Mexican  night,  and  the  gate  of  the 
compound  stood  open.  He  passed  it  with  an  oath. 

Long  before,  he  had  provided  for  such  a  contingency.  By 
the  same  agency  which  had  got  him  to  the  border,  he  could 
now  be  sent  further  on.  At  something  after  midnight,  clad 
in  old  clothes  and  carrying  on  his  back  a  rough  outfit  of  a 
blanket  and  his  remaining  wardrobe,  he  knocked  at  the  door 
of  a  small  adobe  house  on  the  border  of  the  town.  An  eld 
erly  German  with  a  candle  admitted  him. 

"Well,  I'm  off,"  Rudolph  said  roughly. 

"And  time  enough,  too,"  said  the  German,  gruffly. 

Rudolph  was  sullenly  silent.  He  was  in  this  man's  power, 
and  he  knew  it.  But  the  German  was  ready  enough  to  do 
his  part.  For  months  he  had  been  doing  this  very  thing, 
starting  through  the  desert  toward  the  south  slackers  and  fugi 
tives  of  all  descriptions.  He  gathered  together  the  equipment, 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 387 

a  map  with  water-holes  marked,  a  canteen  covered  with  a 
dirty  plaid-cloth  casing,  a  small  supply  of  condensed  foods, 
in  tins  mostly,  and  a  letter  to  certain  Germans  in  Mexico 
City  who  would  receive  hospitably  any  American  fugitives 
and  ask  no  questions. 

"How  about  money?"  Rudolph  inquired. 

The  German  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  will  not  need  money  in  the  desert,"  he  said.  "And 
you  haf  spent  much  money  here,  on  the  women.  You  should 
have  safed  it." 

"I  was  told  you  would  give  me  money." 

But  the  German  shook  his  head. 

"You  vill  find  money  in  Mexico  City,  if  you  get  there,"  he 
said,  cryptically.  And  Rudolph  found  neither  threats  nor  en 
treaties  of  any  avail. 

He  started  out  of  the  town,  turning  toward  the  south  and 
west.  Before  him  there  stretched  days  of  lonely  traveling 
through  the  sand  and  cactus  of  the  desert,  of  blistering  sun 
and  cold  nights,  of  anxious  searches  for  water-holes.  It  was 
because  of  the  water-holes  that  he  headed  southwest,  for  such 
as  they  were  they  lay  in  tiny  hidden  oases  in  the  canons.  Al 
most  as  soon  as  he  left  the  town  he  was  in  the  desert ;  a  de 
tached  ranch,  a  suggestion  of  a  road,  a  fenced-in  cotton-field 
or  two,  an  irigation  ditch,  and  then — sand. 

He  was  soft  from  months  of  inaction,  from  the  cactus 
whisky  of  Mexico,  too,  that  ate  into  a  man  like  a  corrosive 
acid.  But  he  went  on  steadily,  putting  behind  him  as  rapidly 
as  possible  the  border,  and  the  girls  who  had  laughed  at  him. 
He  traveled  by  a  pointed  mountain  which  cut  off  the  stars  at 
the  horizon,  and  as  the  miles  behind  him  increased,  in  spite 
of  his  growing  fatigue  his  spirits  rose.  Before  him  lay  the 
fulness  of  life  again.  Mexico  City  was  a  stake  worth  gam 
bling  for.  He  was  gambling,  he  knew.  He  had  put  up  his 
life,  and  his  opponent  was  thirst.  He  knew  that,  well  enough, 
too,  and  the  figure  rather  amused  him. 

"Playing  against  that,  all  right,"  he  muttered.    He  paused 


388 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

and  turned  around.  The  sun  had  lifted  over  the  rim  of  the 
desert,  a  red  disc  which  turned  the  gleaming  white  alkali 
patches  to  rose.  "By  God/'  he  said,  "that's  the  ante,  is  it? 
A  red  chip !" 

A  caravan  of  mules  was  coming  up  from  the  head  of  the 
Gulf  of  California.  It  moved  in  a  cloud  of  alkali  dust  and 
sand,  its  ore-sacks  coated  white.  The  animals  straggled  along, 
wandering  out  of  the  line  incessantly  and  thrust  back  into 
place  by  muleteers  who  cracked  long  whips  and  addressed 
them  vilely. 

At  a  place  where  a  small  rock  placed  on  another  marked 
a  side  trail  to  water,  the  caravan  turned  and  moved  toward 
the  mountains.  Close  as  they  appeared,  the  outfit  was  three 
hours  getting  to  the  foot  hills.  There  was  a  low  meadow 
now,  covered  with  pale  green  grass.  Quail  scurried  away  un 
der  the  mesquite  bushes,  stealthily  whistling,  and  here  and 
there  the  two  stones  still  marked  the  way. 

With  the  instinct  of  desert  creatures  the  mules  hurried  their 
pace.  Pack-saddles  creaked,  spurs  jingled.  Life,  insistent, 
thirsty  life,  quickened  the  dead  plain. 

A  man  rode  ahead.  He  dug  his  spurs  into  his  horse  and 
cantered,  elbows  flapping,  broad-brimmed  hat  drawn  over  his 
eyes.  For  hours  he  had  been  fighting  the  demon  of  thirst. 
His  tongue  was  dry,  his  lips  cracking.  The  trail  continued  to 
be  marked  with  its  double  stones,  but  it  did  not  enter  the 
cool  canon  ahead.  It  turned  and  skirted  the  base  of  the  bare 
mountain  slope.  The  man's  eyes  sharpened.  He  knew  very 
definitely  what  he  was  looking  for,  and  at  last  he  saw  it,  a 
circle  of  flat  stones,  some  twenty  feet  across,  the  desert  sign 
for  a  buried  spring. 

But  there  was  something  inside  the  circle,  something  which 
lay  still.  The  man  put  his  horse  to  the  gallop  again.  There 
was  a  canteen  lying  in  the  trail,  a  canteen  covered  with  a  dirty 
plaid  casing.  The  horse's  hoof  struck  it,  and  it  gave  out  a 
dry,  metallic  sound. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 389 

"Poor  devil !"  muttered  the  rider. 

He  dismounted  and  turned  the  figure  over. 

"God !"  he  said.     "And  water  under  him  all  the  time !" 

Then  he  dragged  the  quiet  figure  outside  the  ring  of  stones, 
and  getting  a  spade  from  his  saddle,  fell  to  digging  in  the 
center.  A  foot  below  the  surface  water  began  to  appear,  clear, 

cold  water.    He  lay  down  flat  and  drank  out  of  the  pool. 
*         &         *         *         *         *         * 

Clayton  Spencer  was  alone  in  his  house.  In  the  months 
since  Natalie  had  gone,  he  had  not  been  there  a  great  deal. 
He  had  been  working  very  hard.  He  had  not  been  able  to 
shoulder  arms,  but  he  had,  nevertheless,  fought  a  good  fight. 

He  was  very  tired.  During  the  day,  a  sort  of  fierce  energy 
upheld  him.  Because  in  certain  things  he  had  failed  he  was 
the  more  determined  to  succeed  in  others.  Not  for  himself; 
ambition  of  that  sort  had  died  of  the  higher  desire  to  serve  his 
country.  But  because  the  sense  of  failure  in  his  private  life 
haunted  him. 

The  house  was  very  quiet.  Buckham  came  in  to  mend  the 
fire,  issuing  from  the  shadows  like  a  lean  old  ghost  and  eyeing 
him  with  tender,  faded  old  eyes. 

"Is  there  anything  else,  sir?" 

"Thanks,  no.     Buckham," 

"Yes,  Mr.  Spencer." 

"I  have  not  spoken  about  it,  but  I  think  you  have  under 
stood.  Mrs.  Spencer  is — not  coming  back." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Spencer." 

"I  had  meant  to  close  the  house,  but  certain  things — Captain 
Spencer's  wife  expects  a  child.  I  would  rather  like  to  have 
her  come  here,  for  the  birth.  After  that,  if  the  war  is  over, 
I  shall  turn  the  house  over  to  them.  You  would  stay  on,  I 
hope,  Buckham." 

"I'll  stay,  sir.  I "  His  face  worked  nervously.  "I  feel 

toward  the  Captain  as  I  would  to  my  own  son,  sir.  I  have 
already  thought  that  perhaps — the  old  nursery  has  been 
cleaned  and  aired  for  weeks,  Mr.  Spencer." 


390 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

Clayton  felt  a  thrill  of  understanding  for  the  old  man. 
Through  all  the  years  he  had  watched  and  served  them.  Ke 
had  reflected  their  joys  and  their  sorrows.  He  had  suffered 
the  family  destiny  without  having  shaped  it.  He  had  lived, 
vicariously,  their  good  hours  and  their  bad.  And  now,  in  his 
old  age,  he  was  waiting  again  for  the  vicarious  joy  of  Graham's 
child. 

"But  you'll  not  be  leaving  the  house,  sir?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  shall  keep  my  rooms.  But  I  shall  prob 
ably  live  at  the  club.  The  young  people  ought  to  be  alone, 
for  a  while.  There  are  readjustments You  never  mar 
ried,  Buckham?" 

"No,  Mr.  Spencer.  I  intended  to,  at  one  time.  I  came  to 
this  country  to  make  a  home,  and  as  I  was  rather  a  long  time 
about  it,  she  married  some  one  else." 

Clayton  caught  the  echo  of  an  old  pain  in  Buckham's  re 
pressed  voice.  Buckham,  too !  Was  there  in  the  life  of  every 
man  some  woman  tragedy?  Buckham,  sitting  alone  in  his 
west  window  and  looking  toward  the  sunset,  Buckham  had  his 
memories. 

"She  lost  her  only  son  at  Neuve  Chapelle,"  Buckham  was 
saying  quietly.  "In  a  way,  it  was  as  tho  I  had  lost  a  boy. 
She  never  cared  for  the  man  she  married.  He  w^as  a  fine  boy, 

sir.  I you  may  remember  the  night  I  was  taken  ill  in 

the  pantry." 

"Is  her  husband  still  living?" 

"No,  Mr.  Spencer." 

"Do  you  ever  think  of  going  back  and  finding  her?" 

"I  have,  sir.  But  I  don't  know.  I  like  to  remember  her  as 
she  used  to  be.  I  have  some  beautiful  memories.  And  I 
think  sometimes  it  is  better  to  live  on  memories.  They  are 
more  real  than — well,  than  reality,  sir." 

Long  after  Buckham  had  withdrawn,  Clayton  paced  the 
floor  of  the  library.  Was  Buckham  right?  Was  the  real  life 
of  a  man  his  mental  life?  Was  any  love  so  great  as  a  man's 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 391 

dream  of  love?  Peace  was  on  the  way.  Soon  this  nightmare 
of  war  would  be  over,  and  in  the  great  awakening  love  would 
again  take  the  place  of  hate.  Love  of  man  for  man,  of  nation 
for  nation.  Peace  and  the  things  of  peace.  Time  to  live. 
Time  to  hope,  with  the  death-cloud  gone.  Time  to  work  and 
time  to  play.  Time  to  love  a  woman  and  cherish  her  for  the 
rest  of  life,  if  only 

His  failure  with  Natalie  had  lost  him  something.  She  had 
cost  him  his  belief  in  himself.  Her  last  words  had  crystallize^ 
his  own  sense  of  failure. 

"I  admit  all  your  good  qualities,  Clay.  Heaven  knows  they 
are  evident  enough.  But  you  are  the  sort  people  admire.  They 
don't  love  you.  They  never  will." 

Yet  that  night  he  had  had  a  curious  sense  that  old  Buckham 
loved  him.  Maybe  he  was  the  sort  men  loved  and  women 
admired. 

He  sat  down  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  watching  the  fire- 
logs.  He  felt  very  tired.  What  was  that  Buckham  had  said 
about  memories?  But  Buckham  was  old.  He  was  young, 
young  and  strong.  There  would  be  many  years,  and  even  his 
most  poignant  memories  would  grow  dim. 

Audrey!   Audrey! 

From  the  wall  over  the  mantel  Natalie's  portrait  still  sur 
veyed  the  room  with  its  delicate  complacence.  He  looked  up 
at  it.  Yes,  Natalie  had  been  right.  He  was  not  the  sort  to 
make  a  woman  happy.  There  were  plenty  of  men,  young 
men,  men  still  plastic,  men  who  had  not  known  shipwreck, 
and  some  such  man  Audrey  would  marry.  Perhaps  already, 
in  France • 

He  got  up.  His  desk  was  covered  with  papers,  neatly  en^ 
dorsed  by  his  secretary.  He  turned  out  all  the  lights  but  his 
desk  lamp.  Natalie's  gleaming  flesh-tones  died  into  the  shad 
ows,  and  he  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  up  at  it,  a  dead  thing, 
remote,  flat,  without  significance.  Then  he  sat  down  at  his 
desk  and  took  up  a  bundle  of  government  papers. 

There  was  still  work.     Thank  God  for  work. 


CHAPTER  L 

AUDREY  was  in  Paris  on  the  eleventh  of  November.  Now 
and  then  she  got  back  there,  and  reveled  for  a  day  or  two 
in  the  mere  joy  of  paved  streets  and  great  orderly  buildings. 
She  liked  the  streets  and  the  crowds.  She  liked  watching  the 
American  boys  swaggering  along,  smoking  innumerable 
cigarets  and  surveying  the  city  with  interested,  patronizing 
eyes.  And,  always,  walking  briskly  along  the  Rue  Royale 
or  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera,  or  in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries 
where  the  school-boys  played  their  odd  French  games,  her 
eyes  were  searching  the  faces  of  the  men  she  met. 

Any  tall  man  in  civilian  clothes  set  her  heart  beating  faster. 
She  was  quite  honest  with  herself ;  she  knew  that  she  was 
watching  for  Clay,  and -she  had  a  magnificent  shamelessness 
in  her  quest.  And  now  at  last  The  Daily  Mail  had  announced 
his  arrival  in  France,  and  at  first  every  ring  of  her  telephone 
had  sent  her  to  it,  somewhat  breathless  but  quite  confident. 
He  would,  she  considered,  call  up  the  Red  Cross  at  the  Hotel 
Regina,  and  they  would,  by  her  instructions,  give  her  hotel. 

Then,  on  that  Monday  morning,  which  was  the  eleventh,  she 
realized  that  he  would  not  call  her  up.  She  knew  it  suddenly 
and  absolutely.  She  sat  down,  when  the  knowledge  came  to 
her,  with  a  sickening  feeling  that  if  he  did  not  come  to  her 
now  he  never  would  come.  Yet  even  then  she  did  not  doubt 
that  he  cared.  Cared  as  desperately  as  she  did.  The  bond 
still  held. 

She  tried  very  hard,  sitting  there  by  her  wood  fire  in  the 
orderly  uniform  which  made  her  so  quaintly  young  and  boyish, 
to  understand  the  twisted  mental  processes  that  kept  him  away 
from  her,  now  that  he  was  free.  And,  in  the  end,  she  came 
rather  close  to  the  truth :  his  sense  of  failure ;  his  loss  of  con- 

392 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 393 

fidence  in  himself  where  his  love  life  was  concerned;  the 
strange  twisting  and  warping  that  were  Natalie's  sole  legacy 
from  their  years  together. 

For  months  she  had  been  tending  broken  bodies  and  broken 
spirits.  But  the  broken  pride  of  a  man  was  a  strange  and  ter 
rible  thing. 

She  did  not  know  where  he  was  stopping,  and  in  the  con 
gestion  of  the  Paris  hotels  it  would  be  practically  impossible 
to  trace  him.  And  there,  too,  her  own  pride  stepped  in.  He 
must  come  to  her.  He  knew  she  cared.  She  had  been  honest 
with  him  always,  with  a  sort  of  terrible  honesty. 

Surveying  the  past  months  she  wondered,  not  for  the  first 
time,  what  had  held  them  apart  so  long,  against  the  urge  that 
had  become  the  strongest  thing  in  life  to  them  both.  The 
strength  in  her  had  come  from  him.  She  knew  that.  But 
where  had  Clay  got  his  strength?  Men  were  not  like  that, 
often.  Failing  final  happiness,  they  so  often  took  what  they 
could  get.  Like  Chris. 

Perhaps,  for  the  first  and  last  time,  she  saw  Clayton 
Spencer  that  morning  with  her  mind,  as  well  as  with  her 
heart.  She  saw  him  big  and  generous  and  fine,  but  she  saw 
him  also  not  quite  so  big  as  his  love,  conventional,  bound  by 
tradition  and  early  training,  somewhat  rigid,  Calvinistic,  and 
dominated  still  by  a  fierce  sex  pride. 

At  once  the  weaknesses  of  the  middle  span,  and  its  safety. 

And,  woman-fashion,  she  loved  him  for  both  his  weakness 
and  his  strength.  A  bigger  man  might  have  taken  her.  A 
smaller  man  would  have  let  her  go.  Clay  was — just  Clay; 
single-hearted,  intelligent  but  not  shrewd,  blundering,  honest 
Clay. 

She  was  one  great  ache  for  the  shelter  of  his  arms. 

She  had  a  small  sense  of  shame  that,  on  that  day  of  all 
others,  she  should  be  obsessed  with  her  own  affairs. 

This  was  a  great  day.  That  morning,  if  all  went  well,  the 
war  was  to  cease.  The  curtain  was  to  fall  on  the  great  melo 
drama,  and  those  who  had  watched  it  and  those  who  had 


394 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

played  in  it  would  with  the  drop  of  the  curtain  turn  away 
from  the  illusion  that  is  war,  to  the  small  and  quiet  things  of 
home. 

"Home!"  she  repeated.  She  had  no  home.  But  it  was  a 
great  day,  nevertheless.  Only  that  morning  the  white-capped 
femme  de  chambre  had  said,  with  exaltation  in  her  great 
eyes: 

"So !  It  is  finished,  Madame,  or  soon  it  will  be — in  an  hour 
or  two." 

"It  will  be  finished,  Suzanne." 

"And  Madame  will  go  back  to  the  life  she  lived  before." 
Her  eyes  had  turned  to  where,  on  the  dressing-table,  lay  the 
gold  fittings  of  Audrey's  dressing-case.  She  visualized  Au 
drey,  back  in  rich,  opulent  America,  surrounded  by  the  luxury 
the  gold  trinkets  would  indicate. 

"Madame  must  be  lovely  in  the  costume  for  a  ball,"  she 
said,  and  sighed.  For  her,  a  farm  in  Brittany,  the  endless 
round  of  small  duties;  for  the  American 

Sitting  there  alone  Audrey  felt  already  the  reactions  of 
peace.  The  war  had  torn  up  such  roots  as  had  held  her. 
She  was  terribly  aware,  too,  that  she  had  outgrown  her  old 
environment.  The  old  days  were  gone.  The  old  Audrey 
was  gone ;  and  in  her  place  was  a  quiet  woman,  whose  hands 
had  known  service  and  would  never  again  be  content  to  be 
idle.  Yet  she  knew  that,  with  the  war,  the  world  call  would 
be  gone.  Not  again,  for  her,  detached,  impersonal  service. 
She  was  not  of  the  great  of  the  earth.  What  she  wanted, 
quite  simply,  was  the  service  of  love.  To  have  her  own  and 
to  care  for  them.  She  hoped,  very  earnestly,  that  she  would 
be  able  to  look  beyond  her  own  four  walls,  to  see  distress  and 
to  help  it,  but  she  knew,  as  she  knew  herself,  that  the  real 
call  to  her  would  always  be  love. 

She  felt  a  certain  impatience  at  herself.  This  was  to  be  the 
greatest  day  in  the  history  of  the  world,  and  while  all  the 
earth  waited  for  the  signal  guns,  she  waited  for  a  man  who 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 395 

had  apparently  determined  not  to  take  her  back  into  his 
life. 

She  went  out  onto  her  small  stone  balcony,  on  the  Rue 
Danou,  and  looked  out  to  where,  on  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  the 
city  traffic  moved  with  a  sort  of  sporadic  expectancy.  Men 
stopped  and  consulted  their  watches.  A  few  stood  along  the 
curb,  and  talked  in  low  voices.  Groups  of  men  in  khaki  walked 
by,  or  stopped  to  glance  into  the  shop  windows.  They,  too, 
were  waiting.  She  could  see,  far  below,  her  valet  de  chambre 
in  his  green  felt  apron,  and  the  concierge  in  his  blue  frock 
ccat  and  brass  buttons,  unbending  in  the  new  democracy  of 
hope  to  talk  to  a  cabman. 

Suddenly  Audrey  felt  the  same  exaltation  that  had  been  in 
Suzanne's  eyes.  Those  boys  below  in  uniform — they  were  not 
tragic  now.  They  were  the  hope  of  the  world,  not  its  sacri 
fice.  They  were  going  to  live.  They  were  going  to  live. 

She  went  into  her  bedroom  and  put  on  her  service  hat.  And 
as  she  opened  the  door  Suzanne  was  standing  outside,  one 
hand  upraised.  Into  the  quiet  hallway  there  came  the  distant 
sound  of  the  signal  guns. 

"C'est  I' armistice!"  cried  Suzanne,  and  suddenly  broke  into 
wild  hysterical  sobbing. 

All  the  way  down-stairs  Audrey  was  praying,  not  articu 
lately,  but  in  her  heart,  that  this  was  indeed  the  end;  that 
the  grapes  of  wrath  had  all  been  trampled;  that  the  nations 
of  the  world  might  again  look  forward  instead  of  back.  And 
— because  she  was  not  of  the  great  of  the  earth,  but  only  a 
loving  woman — that  somewhere  Clay  was  hearing  the  guns, 
as  she  was,  and  would  find  hope  in  them,  and  a  future. 

When  a  great  burden  is  lifted,  the  relief  is  not  always 
felt  at  once.  The  galled  places  still  ache.  The  sense  of 
weight  persists.  And  so  with  Paris.  Not  at  once  did  the  city 
rejoice  openly.  It  prayed  first,  and  then  it  counted  the  sore 
spots,  and  they  were  many.  And  it  was  dazed,  too.  There 
had  been  no  time  to  discount  peace  in  advance. 

The  streets  filled  at  once,  but  at  first  it  was  with  a  chastened 


396 DANGEROUS  DAYS 

people.  Audrey  herself  felt  numb  and  unreal.  She  moved 
mechanically  with  the  shifting  crowd,  looking  overhead  as  a 
captured  German  plane  flew  by,  trying  to  comprehend  the 
incomprehensible.  But  by  mid-day  the  sober  note  of  the 
crowds  had  risen  to  a  higher  pitch.  A  file  of  American  dough 
boys,  led  by  a  corporal  with  a  tin  trumpet  and  officered  by  a 
sergeant  with  an  enormous  American  cigar,  goose-stepped 
down  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera,  gaining  recruits  at  every  step. 
It  snake-danced  madly  through  the  crowd,  singing  that  one 
lyric  stand-by  of  Young  America:  "Hail!  hail!  the  gang's 
all  here!" 

But  the  gang  wras  not  all  there,  and  they  knew  it.  Some  of 
them  lay  in  the  Argonne,  or  at  Chateau-Thierry,  and  for  them 
peace  had  come  too  late.  But  the  Americans,  like  the  rest  of 
the  world,  had  put  the  past  behind  them.  Here  was  the  pres 
ent,  the  glorious  present,  and  Paris  on  a  sunny  Monday.  And 
after  that  would  be  home. 

"Hail,  hail,  the  gang's  all  here, 
What  the  hell  do  we  care? 
What  the  hell  do  we  care? 
Hail,  hail,  the  gang's  all  here, 
What  the  hell  do  we  care  now?" 

Gradually  the  noise  became  uproarious.  There  were  no 
bands  in  Paris,  and  any  school-boy  with  a  tin  horn  or  a  toy 
drum  could  start  a  procession.  Bearded  little  poilus,  arm  in 
arm  from  curb  to  curb,  marched  grinning  down  the  center  of 
the  streets,  capturing  and  kissing  pretty  midinettes,  or  sur 
rounding  officers  and  dancing  madly.  Audrey  saw  an  Al 
gerian,  ragged  and  dirty  from  the  battle-fields,  kiss  on  both 
cheeks  a  portly  British  Admiral  of  the  fleet,  and  was  herself 
kissed  by  a  French  sailor,  with  extreme  robustness  and  a 
slight  tinge  of  vin  ordinaire.  She  went  on  smiling. 

If  only  Clay  were  seeing  all  this!  He  had  worked  so  hard- 
He  had  a  right  to  this  wonderful  hour,  at  least.  If  he  had 
gone  to  the  front,  to  see  Graham — but  then  it  must  be  rather 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 397 

wonderful  at  the  front,  too.  She  tried  to  visualize  it;  the 
guns  quiet,  and  the  strained  look  gone  from  the  faces  of  the 
men,  with  the  wonderful  feeling  that  as  there  was  to-day,  now 
there  would  also  be  to-morrow. 

She  felt  a  curious  shrinking  from  *he  people  she  knew. 
For  this  one  day  she  wanted  to  be  alone.  This  peace  was  a 
thing  of  the  soul,  and  of  the  soul  alone.  She  knew  what  it 
would  be  with  the  people  she  knew  best  in  Paris, — hastily 
arranged  riotous  parties,  a  great  deal  of  champagne  and  noise, 
and,  overlying  the  real  sentiment,  much  sentimentality.  She 
realized,  with  a  faint  smile,  that  the  old  Audrey  would  have 
welcomed  that  very  gayety.  She  was  even  rather  resentful 
with  herself  for  her  own  aloofness. 

She  quite  forgot  luncheon,  and  early  afternoon  found  her 
on  the  balcony  of  the  Crillon  Hotel,  overlooking  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde.  Paris  was  truly  awake  by  that  time,  and  going 
mad.  The  long-quiet  fountains  were  playing,  Poilus  and 
American  soldiers  had  seized  captured  German  cannon  and 
were  hauling  them  wildly  about.  If  in  the  morning  the  crowd 
had  been  largely  khaki,  now  the  French  blue  predominated. 
Flags  and  confetti  were  everywhere,  and  every  motor,  as  it, 
pushed  slowly  through  the  crowd,  carried  on  roof  and  run 
ning  board  and  engine  hood  crowds  of  self-invited  passengers. 
A  British  band  was  playing  near  the  fountain.  A  line  of  hel 
mets  above  the  mass  and  wild  cheers  revealed  French  cavalry 
riding  through,  and,  heralded  by  jeers  and  much  applause  came 
a  procession  of  the  proletariat,  of  odds  and  ends,  soldiers  and 
shop-girls,  mechanics  and  street-sweepers  and  cabmen  and 
students,  carrying  an  effigy  of  the  Kaiser  on  a  gibbet. 

As  the  sun  went  down,  the  outlines  of  the  rejoicing  city 
took  on  the  faint  mist-blue  of  a  dream  city.  It  softened  the 
outlines  of  the  Eiffel  tower  to  strange  and  fairy-like  beauty  and 
gave  to  the  trees  in  the  Tuileries  gardens  the  lack  of  definition 
of  an  old  engraving.  And  as  if  to  remind  the  rejoicing  of  the 
price  of  their  happiness,  there  came  limping  through  the  crowd 
a  procession  of  the  mutilces.  They  stumped  along  on  wooden 


398  DANGEROUS  DAYS 

legs  or  on  crutches;  they  rode  in  wheeled  chairs;  they  were 
led,  who  could  not  see.  And  they  smiled  and  cheered.  None 
of  them  was  whole,  but  every  one  was  a  full  man,  for  all  that. 

Audrey  cried,  shamelessly  like  Suzanne,  but  quietly.  And, 
not  for  the  first  time  that  day,  she  thought  of  Chris.  She 
had  never  loved  him,  but  it  was  pitiful  that  he  could  not 
have  lived.  He  had  so  loved  life.  He  would  have  so  relished 
all  this,  the  pageantry  of  it,  and  the  gayety,  and  the  night's 
revelry  that  was  to  follow.  Poor  Chris !  He  had  thrown 
everything  away,  even  life.  The  world  perhaps  was  better 
that  these  mutilees  below  had  given  what  they  had.  But  Chris 
had  gone  like  a  pebble  thrown  into  a  lake.  He  had  made  his 
tiny  ripple  and  had  vanished. 

Then  she  remembered  that  she  was  not  quite  fair.  Per 
haps  she  had  never  been  fair  to  Chris.  He  had  given  all  he 
had.  He  had  not  lived  well,  but  he  had  died  well.  And 
there  was  something  to  be  said  for  death.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  healthy  life  she  wondered  about  death,  standing  here 
on  the  Crillon  balcony,  with  the  city  gone  mad  with  life  be 
low  her.  Death  was  quiet.  It  might  be  rather  wonderful. 
She  thought,  if  Clay  did  not  want  her,  that  perhaps  it  would 
be  very  comforting  just  to  die  and  forget  about  everything. 

From  beneath  the  balcony  there  came  again,  lustily,  the 
shouts  of  a  dozen  doughboys  hauling  a  German  gun : 

"Hail !  hail !  the  gang's  all  here  ! 
What  the  hell  do  we  care? 
What  the  hell  do  we  care? 
Hail,  hail,  the  gang's  all  here ! 
What  the  hell  do  we  care  now  ?" 

Then,  that  night,  Clay  came.  The  roistering  city  outside 
had  made  of  her  little  sitting-room  a  sort  of  sanctuary,  into 
which  came  only  faintly  the  blasts  of  horns,  hoarse  strains  of 
the  "Marseillaise"  sung  by  an  un-vocal  people,  the  shuffling  of 
myriad  feet,  the  occasional  semi-hysterical  screams  of  women. 

"Mr.  Spencer  is  calling,"  said  the  concierge  over  the  tele- 


DANGEROUS  DAYS    399 

phone,  in  his  slow  English.  And  suddenly  a  tight  band 
snapped  which  had  seemed  to  bind  Audrey's  head  all  day.  She 
was  calm.  She  was  herself  again.  Life  was  very  wonderful ; 
peace  was  very  wonderful.  The  dear  old  world.  The  good 
old  world.  The  kind,  loving,  tender  old  world,  which  separat 
ed  people  that  they  might  know  the  joy  of  coming  together 
again.  She  wanted  to  sing,  she  wanted  to  hang  over  her 
balcony  and  teach  the  un-vocal  French  the  "Marseillaise." 

Yet,  when  she  had  opened  the  door,  she  could  riot  even 
speak.  And  Clay,  too,  after  one  long  look  at  her,  only  held 
out  his  arms.  It  was  rather  a  long  time,  indeed,  before  they 
found  any  wrords  at  all.  Audrey  was  the  first,  and  what  she 
said  astounded  her.  For  she  said : 

"What  a  dreadful  noise  outside/' 

And  Clay  responded,  with  equal  gravity:  "Yes,  isn't  it!" 

Then  he  took  off  his  overcoat  and  put  it  down,  and  placed 
his  hat  on  the  table,  and  said,  very  simply :  "I  couldn't  stay 
away.  I  tried  to." 

"You  hadn't  a  chance  in  the  world,  Clay,  when  I  was  willing 
you  to  come." 

Then  there  was  one  of  those  silences  which  come  v/hen 
words  have  shown  their  absolute  absurdity.  It  seemed  a  long 
time  before  he  broke  it. 

"I'm  not  young,  Audrey.    And  I  have  failed  once." 

"It  takes  two  to  make  a  failure,"  she  said  dauntlessly.  "I 
— wouldn't  let  you  fail  again,  Clay.  Not  if  you  love  me." 

"If  I  love  you !"  Then  he  was,  somehow,  in  that  grotesque 
position  that  is  only  absurd  to  the  on-looker,  on  his  knees 
beside  her.  His  terrible  self-consciousness  was  gone.  He 
only  knew  that,  somehow,  some  way,  he  must  prove  to  her 
his  humility,  his  love,  his  terrible  fear  of  losing  her  again,  his 
hope  that  together  they  might  make  up  for  the  wasted  years 
of  their  lives.  "I  worship  you,"  he  said. 

The  little  room  was  a  sanctuary.  The  war  lay  behind  them. 
Wasted  and  troubled  years  lay  behind  them.  Youth,  first 
youth,  was  gone,  with  its  illusions  and  its  dreams.  But  be- 


40Q DANGEROUS  DAYS 

fore  them  lay  the  years  of  fulfilment,  years  of  understanding. 
Youth  demanded  everything,  and  was  discontented  that  it  se 
cured  less»than  its  demands.  Now  they  asked  but  three  things, 
work,  and  peace,  and  love.  And  the  greatest  of  these  was 
love. 

Something  like  that  he  said  to  her,  when  the  first  inarticu 
lateness  had  passed,  and  when,  as  is  the  way  of  a  man  with 
the  woman  who  loves  him,  he  tried  to  lay  his  soul  as  well  as 
his  heart  at  her  feet.  The  knowledge  that  the  years  brought. 
That  love  in  youth  was  a  plant  of  easy  growth,  springing  up 
in  many  soils.  But  that  the  love  of  the  middle  span  of  a 
man's  life,  whether  that  love  be  the  early  love  purified  by 
fire,  or  a  new  love,  sowed  in  sacrifice  and  watered  with  tears, 
the  love  that  was  to  carry  a  man  and  a  woman  through  to. the 
end,  the  last  love,  was  God's  infinitely  precious  gift.  A  gift  to 
take  the  place  of  the  things  that  had  gone  with  youth,  of  high 
adventure  and  the  lilt  of  the  singing  heart. 

The  last  gift. 


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